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ANNA HAMMER; 



CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LIFE 


Crnnslitbii frnm tijr #Brmint nf €imrat, 

BY ALFRED H. GUERNSEY. 


NEW YORK: 



HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
■*329 & 331 PEARL STREET, 


FRANKLIN SQUARE. 


MDCCCLII. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
eight hundred and fifty-two, by 

Harper & Brothers, 

in the Clerk’s Gmce of the District Court of the Southern District 
of New York, 


NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR. 


The Tale, of which the following is a translation, bears, in the original, the 
title of “ Anna Hammer ; a Romance of the Present.” It is the first of a series 
published under the general title of “ Neue Deutsche Zeitbilder ” — “ New Pic- 
tures of Contemporary German Life.” They appeared at first anonymously; 
but are now acknowledged to he written by Temme, a man who bore a promi- 
nent part in the attempt made in 1848 to construct a German State from the 
scattered fragments of the great German people. How lamentably that attempt 
failed, and by its failure demonstrated the want in Germany of all practical 
political knowledge and constructive faculty, is matter of history. The author 
was arrested on a political charge, and underwent a long imprisonment before 
being brought to trial, where he was acquitted ; and a portion of “ Anna Ham- 
mer” was written while in prison. Temme is certainly no experienced novelist ; 
but he writes with a thorough knowledge of his subject, und with an earnestness 
and definiteness of purpose which justifies and perhaps demands a disregard of 
the laws which govern fictitious compositions viewed simply as works of art. 
His object is not to present a labored analysis of individual character, but to set 
forth the wanton abuses committed by legal functionaries and tribunals ; the 
corruption and servility of courtiers and placemen ; the insolence and brutality 
of the military power ; and the galling tyranny of the petty sovereigns. His 
object is to portray systems and institutions rather than persons ; hence he leaves 
his characters when the special purpose for which they were introduced has 
been subserved, without even a postscript to tell their subsequent fate. Those 
who wish to learn what it is that the German emigrants who forsake their 
“ Fatherland,” and throng our shores, seek to avoid, can not, perhaps, learn it 
better, short of a personal visit to the Continent of Europe, than from “ Anna 
Hammer.” 


New York, August, 1852 
















. - • 

. 






















V 
































. , A 

* 


ANNA HAMMER 


/• 


CHAPTER I. 

LIFE IN GARRISON. 

Three cavalry officers were sitting together, 
in a little German town, one warm April after- 
noon. They were sitting in the public room 
of the humble inn, the only one in the place. 
Two of them had flung themselves down by the 
table ; one had his legs crossed, the other had 
them stretched out at full length before him. 
The third officer sat by the window. All three 
were smoking ; two of them had cigars, the 
other an enormous meerschaum. All three were 
silent ; one was playing with the spur on the 
foot crossed over the other, turning it around so 
as to make it rattle ; the second had his eyes 
fixed upon the great bowl of his pipe, and at 
the clouds which he was puffing out of it ; the 
third was looking out of the window at the clouds 
which the wind drove across the heavens. 

Aweary life is that of a cavalry officer in this 
small garrison. One hour a day they practice 
in the riding course ; for another hour they ex- 
ercise the recruits ; for a quarter of an hour 
they inspect the stalls — and then their service 
for the day is over. All the rest of the day, 
with its whole mass of hours, now lies before 
them, unoccupied, with a most leaden heaviness. 
There is but a single squadron there, and to 
that there are attached only five officers. They 
have known each other since they were cadets. 
The subjects of horses, and dogs, and women, 
and the army-list, have been exhausted. The 
nearest garrison is too far away for an off-hand 
visit. They can have no social intercourse with 
the sub-officers — the dignity of the service would 
not allow that. There is little society in the 
town itself. The quiet, narrow, and frequently 
narrow-minded family circles of the citizens 
and minor functionaries avoid all intimacy with 
the officers. They meet them at the inn, at the 
bowling-alley, in the cssino, when there is one; 
but when on the public walks, with their wives 
and families, they meet them unwillingly; at 
home not at all. A few noble families perhaps 
reside in the neighborhood; but they are not at 
all fond of receiving visitors ; and those of them 
who were hospitable once, are now no longer 
so ; they have been too hospitable of old, and 
have no longer the means to be so. Invitations 
come now and then to the chase ; but there is 
no hunting in April. 

Our three officers, all lieutenants, all young 


i men, of pleasing appearance, with strongly- 
marked countenances, had already sat there a 
long time immovable and speechless. The 
postman entered the room, laid the last news- 
paper from the capital upon the tatye, and de- 
parted as silently as he had entered. The offi- 
cers remained immovable and speechless as be- 
fore. At last one of them leaned over, reached 
out for the paper, slowly, almost mechanically ; 
the two others took no notice. The first glanced 
over the items of the day, but began at the bot- 
tom, with the notices and advertisements. In 
a few minutes he had reached the end — that is, 
the beginning, and threw the sheet carelessly 
back upon the table. 

“No news!” said he, yawning, and began 
once more to twirl the rattling spur with his 
finger. 

“As usual,” said his neighbor. 

The third remained motionless. 

They continued sitting for a long time, with- 
out moving or speaking, till the cigars were 
smoked up, and the meerschaum would burn no 
longer. New cigars were then lighted, and the 
meerschaum was filled again. The officers then 
rose and walked back and forth a few steps up 
and down the room. 

“ Tiresome !” said one. 

“ Cursed tiresome!” answered another. The 
third looked wearily at his boots. 

Down they sat again in their old places, as 
speechless as before. 

The sun meanwhile was setting. The clouds 
sweeping over the heavens shone in its last 
beams, and piled themselves up in strange and 
fantastic forms ; colored with the most gorgeous 
hues. It began to grow dark in the room; the 
clouds from the great meerschaum were no 
longer visible. The ennui increased. . 

A servant, a sort of tapster, brought in a 
couple of smoky tallow candles, and placed 
them on the table. The ennui did not diminish. 
The tread of horses was heard without. It 
came up the street, and approached the inn. 
The faces of the officers grew animated. 

“Can the Captain have returned already?” 
cried one, half astonished. 

“Impossible!” exclaimed another; “if he 
were to ride like the devil he couldn’t be here 
for an hour !” 

“ But there are two horses ; an officer’s, and 
that of his servant ; I know by the sound.” 

The third officer looked at the speaker. “I; 


6 


ANNA HAMMER. 


isn’t the Captain,” said he, positively; ; ‘the 
Captain’s horse goes more lightly. The officer’s 
horse that is coming there has a heavier pace.” 

They got up, and went to the window. Two 
horsemen came riding slowly up the street. 
One rode in advance, the other followed a few 
paces behind. 

“ By God, an officer with his servant !” said 
one of the lieutenants. 

The other nodded assent. 

11 Who can he be ? — where can he be going 
to?” 

None of them could divine. The foremost 
horseman stopped before the house. 

“Is this an inn?” he asked through the door. 

The host, the waiter, and the hostler rushed 
out. “ At your command,” they replied, sub- 
missively. 

The officer’s servant had meanwhile rode up, 
and sprung from his horse. The officer also 
dismounted. The hostler tried to take hold of 
the bridle, but the officer pushed him back so 
rudely that he tumbled over. “You blockhead ! 
what do you mean by touching my horse ?” 

The officer’s servant took the horse’s bridle, 
giving the hostler who was getting up, a kick 
behind. 

“ Will his Honor stop here?” asked the host, 
deferentially. 

The officer made no reply, but patted his 
horse on the shoulders and neck. He then 
turned round to the host, saying, briefly and 
imperiously : “A room !” 

The three officers within looked at each other 
in great amazement. 

“Do you know him? Who is he?” asked 

one. 

Nobody knew him. 

“ He wears the uniform of our regiment,” 
remarked another. 

“ That is inexplicable,” said the third, shak- 
ing his head. 

“ There’s nothing fine about his horse ; a 
common roadster.” 

“ A likely idea that he would knock up his 
better horses ! They have come a long dis- 
tance; the horses show that.” 

The door opened. “ Will you be good 
enough to walk in here, for a short time?” said 
the landlord. “Your room up-stairs will be 
ready immediately. You will find some gentle- 
men here, comrades of yours.” 

The new-comer entered. A tall, slender, 
but vigorous form, with features almost too 
finely cut.; or, at least, too delicately to cor- 
respond with the haughtiness which his whole 
appearance expressed. 

He saluted the company courteously. “ Ha ! 
Comrades !” said he. “ I have the honor to 
introduce myself — the Prince von Amberg. I 
have been appointed to your regiment — to this 
squadron. I entreat your friendship as com- 
rades.” 

The oldest of the officers present before, 
returned the introduction: “Von der Gruben — 
ron Martini — my own name, Count Engelhart. 


j It gives us pleasure to welcome a brave com- 
' rade.” , 

They all shook hands. 

“May I ask,” said the Prince von Amberg, 
“where the Captain is, so that I can report 
myself to him ? The service takes precedence 
of every thing.” 

“ The Captain is on an expedition in the 
neighborhood, to visit an acquaintance,” replied 
Count Engelhart. “We expect him back in an 
hour. I am the senior lieutenant in the squad- 
ron,” he added, laughing. 

“I report myself provisionally to you,” re- 
joined the Prince. 

They bowed ceremoniously, but with a sup- 
pressed laugh. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen, for half an hour: I 
feel the necessity of making my toilet, after a 
ride of four days on the stretch — a revoir .” He 
disappeared. 

The other officers looked thoughtfully after 
him. But they paced up and down the room in 
a manner somewhat more animated. 

“ What can have brought him here ?” said 
Herr von der Gruben, thoughtfully. 

“His fate!” replied von Martini, with iron- 
ical pathos. 

But the former started suddenly from his med- 
itations. “ The devil ! his commission is older 
than mine ! A step lost ! I’m always un- 
lucky !” 

Count Engelhart looked at him, with a sym- 
pathizing shrug of the shoulders : “ My dear 
fellow, he won’t stand in the way of your pro- 
motion. Don’t you be alarmed. The Prince, 
of one of the first families, won’t disturb the 
career of Lieutenant von Martini.” 

“ My nobility is as old as his,” broke in Herr 
von der Gruben. 

“Very well. But really, comrades, I am 
curious. What has brought the Prince von 
Amberg to this garrison ? him, who is the 
ornament of the capital, the very top of the 
cream of the corps of officers, the darling of 
the noblest ladies, the one absolutely indispens- 
able to the court circle, connected even with 
the sovereign !” 

“A whim, perhaps?” 

“ One doesn’t give up all the pleasures of the 
capital, all the enjoyments of high life, all the 
advantage of the court, for the sake of a whim, 
and bury one-self in a little town, with sheep- 
feeders and swine-keepers, instead of assem- 
blies ; muddy lanes, instead of streets ; dung- 
heaps instead of parks; pot-houses instead of 
hotels; a reeking peasants’ dance, instead of 
perfumed balls and soirees ; a gingerbread fair 
instead of the Corso. There is some other 
cause for the thing.” 

“Something just occurs to me,” interrupted 
von Martini. “Do you remember the report in 
the newspaper not long ago? Some young gen- 
tlemen of the highest families indulged in some 
excess or other in a public place, which reached 
the highest ears, and made no favorable impres- 
sion. Tho matter was only hinted at. May 


LIFE IN GARRISON. 


7 


not the Prince have had something to do with 
it ?” 

Pooh ! you’re verdant,” rejoined Count 
Engelhart. “Do you suppose the Prince is ban- 
ished here, and for such a bagatelle ! Unless 
I am mistaken, it took place in a public garden; 
the prudish dames, and virtuous daughters of 
some of the citizens got scandalized. But 
would an officer and a man of family be ban- 
ished for that?” 

“ Why not ? his Royal Highness may have 
had a weak moment.” 

“ The old Gentleman may, moreover, begin 
to grow whimsical now and then,” added Herr 
von der Gruben, not without some anxiety in 
his tone. 

“ That may all be. But till I have proof of 
it, I won’t believe in such an affront to the offi- 
cers and nobles in a body. Meanwhile, what’s 
the use of hammering our brains about it? We 
shall know about it before long. Let us order 
wine to do honor to our new comrade. He 
brings some variety to our miserable existence. 
And do you, Martini, brew us a bowl — you 
understand it ; and do you look out for better 
lights.” 

The ingredients for a bowl of champagne- 
cardinal, were ordered, produced, and artistical- 
ly mixed. Brighter lights were also provided. 

Their new comrade returned shortly after, in 
complete uniform, as he must report himself of- 
ficially to the Captain on his return. Count 
Engelhart filled the glasses ; one was handed to 
the Prince. 

“ Your good health ! To your welcome ! 
To our good comradeship, Prince!” 

They touched glasses. 

“ Not Prince,” said the new-comer, “ Com- 
rade ! a true comrade, who craves your friend- 
ship !” 

They emptied their glases, and shook each 
other by the hand. 

“ Your bowl is excellent. I see you know 
how to live here.” 

“ We must get along as well as we can.” 

The glasses were again filled, and again emp- 
tied, and filled again. 

“ You must be curious to know what brought 
me among you,” said the Prince von Amberg ; 
u I must not say, what gave me the good-for- 
tune to be stationed in this garrison — you must 
excuse my sincerity — I should be a liar if I 
were to speak of good-fortune here.” 

“We are all agreed on that !” interrupted 
Count Engelhart. 

The Prince continued: “I am sentenced 
here, banished, exiled, as you would call it.” 

“ We thought so.” 

“ And just for a mere bagatelle.” 

Herr von Martini glanced triumphantly at 
the Count. 

“ Just for a mere bagatelle. Perhaps you 
have heard of the affair. It’s hardly worth 
the trouble of speaking about. The melancho- 
ly, or, if you please, the ridiculous thing about 
it is the sheer prudery which begins to be the 


fashion at court. This monstrous, baseless hy- 
pocrisy — Pshaw ! I’m glad to get out of the 
misery a while, and so I congratulate myself 
that I am with you. Let us pledge each other!” 

They touched glasses, emptied them, and fill- 
ed them once more. 

“ So my conjecture was correct,” said Herr 
von Martini ; “ that affair in the public garden 
was the occasion of your banishment.” 

The Prince looked at him in astonishment. 

“ That of which the paper spoke ?” he asked. 

“ Bah ! that "was only laughed at. What would 
the world come to, if young men of family, 
officers, had no longer the privilege of saying a 
few words that folks call improper, to a pretty 
little burgher-girl in a public garden, accom- 
panied of course with some pantomime or other ? 
What would become of the difference of ranks ? 
Thank heaven, they only laughed at that joke ! 
Why, the pious old ladies at court snickered, 
behind their prayer-books, as we described to 
them the flight and consternation that our joke 
caused among the dames of the bourgeoisie. 
The old Gentleman said nothing to that.” 

“I was sure of it,” said Count Engelhart, 
casting in his turn a look of superiority upon 
Herr von Martini, who would not acknowledge 
himself beaten : “ We heard,” said he to the 
Prince, “ of some other affair ; and I remember 
that your name was mentioned. The late mask- 
ed ball — ” 

The Prince interrupted him with a loud 
laugh : 

“ Oh, yes, that was the best fun of all. Did 
you hear about it ? Didn’t we do the thing up 
superbly — Count Conti and I ? While we were 
paying our respects to the theatrical-princess 
upon her divan, we fastened up her robes and 
petticoats with fine needles, in such a manner 
that when the good-natured, stupid President 
led her out to dance, she sailed up to the line 
of dancers, trussed up perhaps a little too high, 
and she would have remained a long time com- 
fortably in their midst, had not the noble company 
of ladies taken to precipitate flight. ’Pon honor, • 
it was the richest scene — can’t be described.” 

The remembrance of it threw him into a 
hearty fit of laughter. 

After a pause, be went on : “ However, this 
joke might have jost us dear. His Royal 
Highness was at first terribly provoked. In his 
own immediate presence — a celebrated artiste ! 
But he soon listened to reason. The lady mere- 
ly belonged to the theatre, and luckily none 
of the princesses were by. The affair all blew 
over. There was no need of saying any thing 
more about it at court. My misfortune is quite 
another affair.” 

“ You really make us curious,” said Count 
Engelhart, motioning the narrator to empty his 
glass. 

The Prince continued : “ It can be told in 
few words. The head governess and old Lady 
von Bierthaler were sitting in church, just be- 
hind the princely family, talking all sorts of 
scandal, pretending nil the while to be deeply 


ANNA HAMMER. 


engaged in their prayer-books. I stood behind 
them and saw that the governess, in her eager- 
ness, was holding her book wrong side up. So 
I just leaned over her and said, ‘ My gracious 
lady, you are reading wrong side up !’ I must 
have spoken somewhat too loudly, for the Hered- 
itary Princess, looked around at us. When ser- 
vice was over, you ought to have heard the 
tempest. The old lady, in order to justify her- 
self to the Princess, fell foul of me without 
mercy, declared that I was an impertinent fel- 
low, always wanting to fasten something on 
her ; and after she had in her zeal persuaded 
herself that it was so, she demanded satisfaction 
forthwith of his Royal Highness ; and so it was. 
The pious gentlemen about the old fellow spoke 
of sacrilege and desecration of divine service 
and of the church, and so — I have the honor to 
be your regimental comrade.” 

The auditors of the Prince were astounded : 
“ Was that all? Impossible.” 

11 That was all. My transference was made 
out the same day ; and I was forbidden the 
court. I had the tailor sent for immediately to 
fit me with the uniform of your — now our — 
regiment ; I took leave of my commanding offi- 
cer, and set off on my journey here, accompan- 
ied only by my servant. On this account no 
announcement of my entry into the squadron 
has yet arrived.” 

“ You describe a very sad state of things,” 
began Herr von der Gruben, after a pause. 
“Can they have come to such a pass? We 
must be sacrificed for the prayer-book and dev- 
otees. My tidings and my anticipations have 
not deceived me. I tell you, my friends, the 
army is on the brink of ruin, if this nuisance of 
praying is not done away with. It’s growing 
fearfully. Thank Heaven, our regiment is yet 
free from it !” 

“ My good brother,” said Count Engelhart, in 
a mocking tone, “ don’t take it up so lament- 
ably. You’ve got a bad habit of being maudlin 
after the third glass.” 

A carriage now came rapidly up the street. 
It stopped before the inn. The weather had 
meanwhile become stormy. Rain and snow, 
mingled together, were falling. April was show- 
ing her caprices. A stranger entered the apart- 
ment. He was a man below the medium height, 
of middle age, wrapped up in a thick traveling- 
cloak as a protection from the cool evening air. 
Laying aside his mantle, he walked up and down 
the room, casting many a look toward the group 
of officers. 

They took no notice of him. 

Herr von der Gruben was talking with great 
earnestness : “ I say, this praying is the curse 
of the army. The business of war is a rough 
one, and it don’t agree with the soft, sleek, sigh- 
ing nature of a devotee. From my soul I hate 
the fellows who come upon the parade-ground 
from church, and can’t get away from parade 
quick enough, to get hold of the Bible, prayer- 
book, and hymn-book at home, and then drink 
a glass of water and give thanks to the dear God 


for the great enjoyment he has vouchsafed ’em. 
Devil take ’em!” 

“ That’s what I like !” exclaimed Count En- 
gelhart, ironically. 

“ Gruben’s right,” said Herr von Martini. 
“ Sugar-and-water, tea, and praying weaken a 
fellow. It is’nt fit for a soldier.” 

“ Hurrah then for wine, women, and singing,” 
broke in the Prince Amberg, who was tired of 
the conversation. 

At that moment the door opened, and the 
traveler who had just arrived went out. He had 
ordered to be shown to a private chamber. Im- 
mediately afterward two other persons entered 
the room. 

“ You are a wizard, comrade,” said Count 
Engelhart to the Prince, after looking at the 
new-comers. 

The first of these was a young man of some 
nineteen or twenty years. He was tall, thin, 
and narrow-shouldered; he walked somewhat 
stooping, as though his chest was affected. His 
pale complexion denoted rather an invalid than 
a man in full health. His look was not exactly 
anxious, but the expression was any thing but 
that of self-confidence, which one is so well 
pleased to see in the face of a young man of 
eighteen or twenty years. He wore an overcoat 
which was quite too thin for the season, and 
which afforded no adequate protection against 
the storm of the evening. In spite of the storm 
his neck was bare. An ordinary student’s knap- 
sack hung over his shoulder, in his left hand he 
carried a harp, but one finger held his cap, which 
he had taken from his head the moment he en- 
tered the door. 

With his right hand he drew, somewhat awk- 
wardly, as it seemed, a young girl behind him, 
into the room. She was small and apparently 
of a delicate figure ; but one could not be certain 
of this. She had on, over a cotton dress, an up- 
per garment somewhat like a mantle, which con- 
cealed the outlines of her form ; her shoulders 
and breast were also covered by a shawl tied 
behind her back. Besides this her neck was 
carefully protected by a black silk handkerchief 
tied around it. Her hair was covered by a large 
bonnet, likewise of a cotton stuff, of a not alto- 
gether fashionable shape, which at first hid her 
face also. But as she came more into the light, 
one could make out a very regular, pretty, and 
blooming countenance, to which a pair of saucy 
coral lips, slightly parted, and sparkling, almost 
provocative black eyes, gave a charm all the 
greater, since the stature of the little creature, 
and the whole configuration of her features left 
it doubtful, whether one was looking at a child 
of thirteen or fourteen, or a maiden of fifteen or 
sixteen. This doubt was not resolved when 
she had laid down a basket which she carried 
upon her arm, removed the shawl wrapped 
around her breast and shoulders, and even, on 
account of the comfortable warmth of the room, 
divested herself of her upper garment. The out- 
lines indeed now. appeared, the roundness of the 
breast and body, delicate and enchanting, as can 


LIFE IN GARRISON. 


9 


only be seen in a maiden who has reached her 
development, but if one cast a glance at the size 
of this singularly small and delicate creature, he 
would recognize beyond all possibility of mistake 
the undeveloped features belonging to childhood, 
in advance of which appeared to be only the 
lively eye ; and he would involuntarily fall back 
upon the opinion that he saw before him a mere 
child, whose heart could never have been stirred 
by the feelings and presentiments of a maiden. 
In either case he would have felt that he saw a 
vision so lovely and charming as is seldom pre- 
sented by this period of doubtful development. 
This charm was still further heightened when 
the girl had taken off the great ugly hat, and a 
mass of the most beautiful chestnut hair fell down 
in front, which she rapidly brushed off from her 
snowy forehead, so that it flowed in a picturesque 
manner over her back and shoulders. 

Both of the new-comers, as soon as they 
entered, had withdrawn into a corner of the 
room opposite to the group of officers, the young 
man having cast a sly glance at them, and the 
girl, apparently not having noticed them at all. 
They laid down their bundles upon the chairs, 
speaking together in a low tone. The subject 
of their conversation could scarcely be mistaken 
though no word could be distinguished. While 
the young man brushed away from his face the 
hair wet with snow and rain, and the girl wiped her 
face with a white handkerchief, they exchanged 
words of the most tender sympathy and anxiety. 
This was apparent when the girl took off from 
her neck the black kerchief, and handed it to the 
young man. He was unwilling to take it, and 
she pressed it upon him. She grew so earnest, 
that without being conscious of it, she spoke in 
a louder tone. 

“You have already caught cold, in your light 
coat,” said the girl; “and besides, the hand- 
kerchief is yours, I ought not to have taken it 
from you.” 

“But you are hoarse,” he replied, “and it is 
not so very warm here. You will perspire when 
you get warm, and there is a draft when the 
door is opened.” 

“But, Bernard, I entreat you to think of your- 
self, and on your poor sister,” she spoke these 
words in such a moving, supplicatory tone, that 
he seemed no longer able to resist, but took the 
handkerchief and tied it about his own neck. 
He did not appear to have done this prop- 
erly, for she sprang quickly up, made him sit 
down upon a chair, arranged and tied the hai^l- 
kerchief about his neck, dextrously, and ten- 
derly. 

The conversation of the officers had ceased 
• since the entrance of this pair. The Prince was 
especially charmed by the appearance of the girl. 
He followed her every motion ; his new com- 
rades were scarcely less attracted. 

The landlord came into the room immediately 
afterward. He went up to the officers. “ I 
beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said he, “for let- 
ting the strangers come in here. I had, at the 
moment, no other room for them. But one will 


soon be ready for them, and I will send them 
away immediately.” 

Count Engelhart gave him by a nod to un- 
derstand that the explanation was satisfactory. 
But Prince Amberg answered the host : 

“ Let them stay here ; they seem to be musi- 
cians, and the little girl isn’t bad-looking.” 

“ It shall be as you order.” 

“ What do you say, gentlemen ?” said the 
Prince turning to his comrades, with a laugh; 
“ we sha’n’t be embarrassed !” 

They agreed, with a laugh. 

“ Why else have you conjured them up? But 
witchcraft without enjoyment, is means without 
an end. You are right. The girl isn’t bad- 
looking. And we have the music into the bar- 
gain.” 

The young man, after a short whispered con- 
versation with the girl, went up to the landlord 
and asked, bashfully : “ May we ask for some 
tea, and some bread-and-butter ?” 

“How much tea?” asked the host in a tone 
of importance. 

The young man was not prepared for this 
question, and seemed to be searching for an 
answer. 

“ I ask you whether you want one cup, or 
two cups, or half a cup.” 

Herr von Martini laughed at the latter part 
of the question. 

The young man was embarrassed. He turned 
his eyes inquiringly to the girl. She had ob- 
served the impertinence in the landlord’s question, 
and the laugh of the officers. Her eyes flashed, 
but it was the anger of an offended child. In 
a corresponding tone she said to her brother, 
decisively : “ One cup of tea, and two plates of 

bread-and-butter.” 

“ I will order it,” answered the landlord. 

The young man then went back to the girl, 
and the landlord left the room. 

“ The child is no fool,” remarked the Prince. 

Herr von Martini arose, saying: “I must 
feel of her mouth.” He went up to the stran- 
gers. 

“Do you play upon that instrument?” said 
he, addressing the girl. 

“ Both of us do,” she replied in an indifferent 
tone, while she folded up her shawl. 

“ Perhaps you will play something for us,” he 
continued. 

“I am too tired,” was the brief, and some- 
what petulant reply. 

“ A glass of wine will strengthen you.” 

“ No ; I thank you.” The shawl was by this 
time folded ; she laid it on the top of the basket, 
turning her back upon the officer. 

“ Wouldn’t money set you a-going?” asked 
he, half-jokingly, half-angrily, for his comrades 
coughed derisively. 

The young girl turned suddenly round to him. 
“We are no wandering harpers, who play for 
money,” she said, looking keenly at him for a 
moment, and then busying herself again with her 
basket. 

Martini stood irresolute. 


10 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“ Routed !” cried Prince von Amberg, with 
a laugh. “We must send reinforcements.” 

He approached, with a full glass in his hand. 
He seated himself beside the girl. “ My dear 
child,” said he, in a kind and friendly tone, “ you 
are cold and tired. A glass of wine will do 
you good. Accept it from me.” 

She looked at him in surprise. It seemed 
doubtful whether she was offended at the famil- 
iarity of his address, or pleased with his friendly 
tone. At last she replied, coldly, “ I thank you, 
sir. I don’t drink wine.” 

“ But this is cardinal,” said von Martini, in 
a tone of banter. 

“ I don’t drink cardinal either.” 

“ Just hear me, my child,” said the Prince. 
“ I offer you the glass out of pure kindness, for 
your own sake. I have no selfish object — how 
could I have ? Take it, and drink, at your lei- 
sure, as much or as little as you please.” 

She looked hesitatingly at him. Her eye 
glanced from the glass to her brother, who was 
sitting at a little distance, without having taken 
any part in the conversation. 

The Prince seemed to divine her thought. At 
all events he perceived his advantage. “ Mar- 
tini,” he called to that officer, “ bring the young 
man a glass. He needs strengthening quite as 
much.” 

This decided the question. The girl took the 
glass from the hand of the Prince, and began to 
*ip. Martini brought a glass to her companion, 
who also drank. The Prince remained sitting 
by the side of the girl. 

“Have you been making a long journey ?” 
asked he. 

“ We have come fifteen miles to-day.” 

“ On foot?” he inquired, in a tone of aston- 
ishment. 

“ Certainly. Yesterday we came twenty 
miles.” She seemed pleased that the Prince 
was astonished. 

“ And yet you are so lively!” exclaimed he. 
“ You are a fine girl. From how far have you 
<x>me ?” 

“ We have been traveling six days ; and have 
gone fifteen or twenty miles a day. We have 
thirty miles more to go ; and then we shall be 
at home.” 

“ You and your companion ?” 

“ My brother.” 

“ Is your brother too tired to play us some- 
thing ?” 

“ Oh, my dear sir, don’t ask him. He wouldn’t 
refuse you, for he can not deny any one a re- 
quest. But he is very tired, and is not at all 
well.” 

“ Very well, my good, affectionate sister. 
But why do you and your sick brother make so 
weary a journey on foot, and creep along so 
with the heavy instrument?” 

“ Good heavens ! how could we travel any 
otherwise ? We have no carriage ; and the 
post is too expensive for us, too. Besides, travel- 
ing on foot is not so very unpleasant. We can 
nee every thing better; and we often come 


across people with whom we can talk about the 
country and other things ?” 

“ And the instrument?” 

“ Yes, indeed, that is heavy. But we couldn’t 
leave it behind. It was left us by our father. 
My father w T as a musician. He gave it to me 
when he died. It was almost all that he had 
to leave. He had given us children lessons upon 
it together. I was then very small. How often 
has he placed my little fingers correctly upon 
it.” 

Tears rose involuntarily in her dark eyes ; she 
wiped them off with her handkerchief. After a 
pause she continued : “ We could not leave it 
behind, could we ? Besides, it has done us good by 
the way. When we were not too tired, we have 
often played upon it, and so cheered each other 
up. But you must not think that my brother 
carries it all the time. I often relieve him of 
it.” 

“ My child, you excite my interest ; you have 
a noble heart,” exclaimed the Prince Amberg, 
with emotion apparently so true and genuine, 
that the little stranger was evidently affected. 
She looked up into the eyes of the handsome 
man with a clear, satisfied glance. 

“ Let us pledge each other,” continued the 
Prince, bringing his own glass. “ We will 
countermand your tea. You are my guests this 
evening — you and your brother. And in the 
morning perhaps we can come across a con- 
venient carriage for those seven leagues, or so, 
since we have no seven-league boots.” He 
touched her glass with his own. “ What is your 
name?” he asked. 

“ Anna.” 

“ And how old are you, my dear Anna?” 

“ I was fifteen years a few days ago.” 

“ Fifteen years ! why, my pretty Anna, per- 
haps you are a little offended because I have been 
treating you as though you were a mere child.” 

She blushed, but made no answer. For a 
while she sat looking straight before her, as 
though she were meditating. Then she cast a 
glance upon her brother, as though she would 
ask him a question. But he did not notice her. 
She turned suddenly, in a confiding manner, to 
the Prince : “ You wished, just now,” said she, 
“ that I should play. Shall I ? But you must 
excuse me from singing. I am a little hoarse, 
and my brother would be so anxious about me.” 

“ You charm me, my dear little friend,” re- 
plied the Prince. And, in fact, his eyes shone 
with a quiet, but unpleasing delight. 

“ What would you wish ? Something gay, or 
something melancholy ?” 

“ Whichever you please.” 

“I will play you a march, composed by nn 
father.” 

She touched the strings of the instrument 
with a hand delicate and practiced, but wfith a 
strength which no one would have expected 
from the delicate fingers of the girl. It was an 
inspiring, impetuous, and at the close stormy 
march that she played. The Prince appeared 
to listen with unusual attention. 


LIFE IN GARRISON. 


1J 


Herr von der Gruben, in the mean while en- 
tered into conversation with the brother. “ Your 
little sister manifests great capacity,” said he, 
with the tone of a connoisseur, and a patron of 
the Arts. “ Admirable talents — tolerably good 
school — you must have her further instructed.” 

The wine, ol which Martini had given him a 
number of glasses, had inspired the young man 
with some courage. “ Certainly,” he answered, 
u my sister has fine talents. Our father, who 
is now dead, remarked that. He himself taught 
her, and I have assisted him. But we can do 
no more. We are poor.” 

“ You should take your sister to the capital.” 

“ We are poor, sir.” 

“ But in the capital there are patrons of 
music.” 

“ We have no acquaintances at all. We 
know nobody there. Besides, it would be hard 
for us to be again separated from our sister.” 

“ Then you have been separated?” 

“ For two years.” 

“ And where are you now going with her?” 

“ To our mother, and to another sister. We 
are all going to live together 5 we are very glad 
of that.” 

“ Tell us about it,” said Herr von der Gruben. 
“You are quite right. Family life is the root 
of all life. Every other is empty and vacant. 
Alas ! it is not the lot of us rude soldiers. 
While we are yet children, we are torn away 
from home, and never return. From the mili- 
tary school, to the greensw r ard of the battle-field, 
we have only the empty husks of life. Tell us 
about that blissful file of yours — living all to- 
gether. It interests me.” 

“ Our fife is not exactly a happy one,” re- 
plied the young man. “ On the contrary, it has 
been sad and gloomy. Once, indeed, we were 
happy. But hostile fate robbed us of our hap- 
piness all too soon.” 

“ Tell us about it. Tell us about it.” 

“ My story will be short. There were three 
of us, brothers and sisters. My older sister was 
married to a most noble and excellent man. 
Her good fortune was ours. Then came a ter- 
rible misfortune over her — ” 

He stopped short, and remained silent. 

“Well,” said Herr von der Gruben, in an en- 
couraging tone. 

The young man opened his lips to go on. 

“ Bernard !” exclaimed suddenly the warn- 
ing voice of his sister. She had just before 
ceased to play. Her first glance fell, even amid 
the flatteries of the Prince, upon her brother. 
Her quick ear seemed to have caught his words ; 
or perhaps she foreboded what he had said and 
was about to say. 

The brother started, and closed his half-open- 
ed lips. 

Herr von der Gruben was now actually curi- 
ous, although he had hitherto only feigned to 
be so. “You were going to say further,” said 

he. 

Martini was also aroused by the exclamation 
of the girl. He drew near the young man. 


The youth had by this time collected himself, 
and proceeded : “ My brother-in-law was lost 
to my poor sister. She had no longer a hus- 
band. Spare me a more particular recital. It 
would affect me and the child. This affliction, 
and the lamentations of his daughter, brought 
our father to his grave ; but it bound those of 
us who remained still more firmly together. 
My bed-ridden old mother, my poor sister and 
her child, and I five together. My sister em- 
broiders; I draw patterns for embroiderers 
and manufacturers. But, alas ! a while ago 
my sister also fell sick; and I am now bringing 
our younger sister, who has been living with a 
distant relative. She will take charge of our 
little household, and wait upon our poor old 
mother, who can not leave her bed.” 

“ Very sad, very lamentable, isn’t it, my dear 
Gruben,” said Herr von Martini, stroking his 
mustache. He then took his glass, and touched 
those of von der Gruben and the stranger. 

Engelhart sat behind the bowl without mov- 
ing, and kept on smoking his meerschaum. 

The girl looked before her in silence. She 
had heard her brother’s words. Prince Amberg 
sought in vain to arouse her. At last he begged 
her to resume playing. 

“ A livelier one, my dear child ; it will divert 
your thoughts ; something about meeting again. 
You will soon recover your spirits. You seem 
to me to be a maiden of a brave, stout heart.” 

Had he learned so soon how to influence her? 
She again touched the chords. The tones were 
soft and gentle ; then ga} 7 , sportive, joyful ; then 
again more calm ; then all at once exulting, 
stormy, tempestuous. It was plain that it was 
no lesson which she had learned, but that they 
came from the very heart and soul of the maiden. 
It was gay and joyous pictures from her own 
fife which she wrought out in tones which she 
conjured with skill, but yet with feeling, from the 
harp-strings. Now she rejoiced in the intimacy 
of the family circle ; then she was dancing with 
her sportive playfellows amidst the meadows — 
hunting for bright flowers, or chasing the still 
brighter butterflies. Now she was listening to 
her mother’s wondrous stories of fairies and 
princesses, of knights and kings ; and then again 
she was teasing the curly-pated lads in the gar- 
den. So infinitely simple, yet so immeasurably 
rich is the fife of a child. 

All at once the music became more slow, the 
tones grew softly plaintive — they became almost 
inaudible — they were perceived by the imagina- 
tion rather than by the ear. Then they sud- 
denly rose, like a hurricane, howling, bearing all 
before it. One would have thought that the 
chords must break, that the hand of the child 
must become over-wearied. But the sounds 
became stronger and stronger ; the fingers swept 
the strings more and more boldly. A shrill, ter- 
rible cry ! Was it a discord ? Was it the break- 
ing of a string ? Was it the shattering of the 
whole instrument ? 

She ceased. She leant the harp against her 
shoulder, and her face upon the harp. Her 


ANNA HAMMER. 


12 

hands rested wearily on her bosom. Her face 
was suffused with a deep red. Her eyes gleam- 
ed with a dark fire. Her bosom heaved and 
swelled. Her heart palpitated visibly. 

The Prince sat close by her side. His eyes 
too sparkled ; but they were fixed upon the mod- 
est bosom of the girl. 

The girl’* brother had arisen from his seat, 
and approached her. He looked anxiously at 
her. “ You are fatigued, Anna,” he said, in a 
tone of kind reproach ; “ I should have entreated 
you — ” 

“ Oh, suffer me,” she besought him ; “suffer 
me, good Bernard. I was so happy!” 

She motioned him away, and he went back to 
his seat. She then looked toward the Prince. 
She shrank back from the glow in his eyes. She 
did not comprehend her own terror, nor did she 
understand that glow. She was perplexed. 

“I promised you something lively,” said she. 

“ You did, indeed,” said he. musing. 

“ Excuse me. So many remembrances car- 
ried me away.” 

She then played a merry fantasia. 

The Prince nodded to Martini ; his eyes were 
directed to the brother, then to the bowl, and 
then to the girl. Martini understood him. He 
took the stranger by the arm, and led him to the 
table. 

“ Your pretty sister’s health ! Let us drink 
it J” 

They touched glasses ; the young man must 
empty his. 

“ Here’s hoping you may find all your friends 
well and hearty !” 

The young man drank that eagerly from a 
replenished glass. 

“You and yours must have experienced very 
strange fortunes. Let a sympathizing friend 
hear about them.” 

The young artist had meanwhile finished 
playing. The gay, bantering tone of the Prince 
had restored all her lively humor. “ Have I 
kept my promise?” she asked of the Prince. 

He was still in a reverie. “ You have,” said 
he ; “ but your recollections were more beauti- 
ful. Those wonderful tones have penetrated my 
heart. They will long remain there.” 

She laughed. “ The childish recollections of 
a child !” 

“ No, not they ; but the joys and the sorrows 
of the maiden : the sorrow of the forsaken ; the 
grief, the misery of the sister ; the agony of the 
daughter !” 

He took her hand. She, busy with the images 
which he sought to re-awaken, suffered him to 
do so. 

“ That terrible discord, that awful shriek ; was 
it not a shriek of agony at the death of a father ?” 

“It was,” she replied. 

He placed his arm upon her slender form. 
She did not notice it, lost in thoughts of her dead 
father. 

“And now, my poor child, you are without 
any protector. Your poor brother — himself 
needing assistance — ” 


“ He is so good. Day and night does he work 
for his poor mother and sister, who could not 
exist without him. He has overtasked himself; 
that is the occasion of his illness. 

“ Listen to me, my child ; I will be another 

brother to vou. Confide in me.” 

•/ 

She looked at him with a dubious expression. 

He continued, in a tone of encouragement : 
“ You seem to form a noble family, who must be 
provided for. I have an excellent old aunt, a 
kind-hearted old lady, with whom I will place 
you. She will take care of you, and you will 
cheer the remnant of her days with your admir- 
able art. What do you think of that ?” 

She shook her curls doubtfully : “ But my 

old mother, and my poor sick sister ? — No, I can 
not leave them again.” 

“ They shall be provided for. Do you think 
we would leave them in want ? They shall 
forthwith see better times ; and your poor brother 
shall not be obliged to work day and night for 
them, and ruin his health. He shall be enabled 
to work for his own education.” 

She looked at him with an expression of grow- 
ing confidence. 

His language grew more persuasive : “ Agree 
to it, my little angel. To-morrow will I write 
to my aunt. She lives at no great distance. In 
a week her carriage can be here for you. How 
happy will she be — how happy shall I be, if we 
can but make you happy.” 

She looked gratefully at him. He wound his 
arm more boldly and firmly around her. Perhaps 
she now perceived it ; but how could she re- 
pulse the noble disinterested benefactor, who 
offered to be a brother to her? Yet she en- 
deavored gently to disengage her hand from his. 
He released it, in order to place in it her wine- 
glass. “ Let us drink to the success of our plan.” 
Their glasses touched. He emptied his ; she 
must do the same. 

But she began to grow very weary. The ex- 
ertion of the walk, the unpleasant weather of the 
evening, her playing, the reminiscences of her 
childhood so powerfully and vehemently arous- 
ed, the sudden alternation of so many different 
feelings, the wine — to which she was altogether 
unaccustomed — all combined to occasion a state 
of complete physical and mental exhaustion. 
Everything seemed to swim around her; and she 
felt an irresistible longing for repose and sleep. 

She looked around for her brother. Prince 
Amberg watched her glance, which served as 
his cue. It might perhaps even serve his turn 
to excite that wish. 

“ You long for repose and solitude. I see it 
in your weary eyes.” 

“ Oh, yes ; and my brother needs rest too.” 

“ He does not seem to do so. See how earn- 
est he is. My comrades appear to have enter- 
tained him pleasantly. Unless I am mistaken, 
they are talking about Art.” 

“ He is an enthusiast about Art.” 

Well, then, let him have a half hour’s en- 
thusiasm. I will see that a chamber is pre- 
pared for you.” 


LIFE IN GARRISON. 


He left the room. In a few minutes he re- 
turned, saying: ‘‘Your room is ready; the 
chambermaid is waiting outside with a light, to 
conduct you to it. Don’t disturb your brother. 
He will sleep close by you. Every thing is 
cared for. Now good-night, my little innocent 
— till morning.” 

He reached out his hand to take leave. But 
suddenly, as though something had just come 
into his mind, he continued : “ But I must see 
where they have put you — I’ll go with you to 
your room.” 

In her longing for rest and sleep, she only 
half heard the words. They left the room to- 
gether. The brother did not observe it. 

“ Ah, yes, my very excellent young friend,” 
Herr von Martini was saying, “ great and sub- 
lime models are the very nurse — the source and 
origin of art — so you must really go to the capi- 
tal — you must indeed. What’s the use of your 
genius, your soul, your imagination, if you can’t 
drink at this fountain of artistic life?” 

“ But I still maintain,” eagerly replied the 
young man, who seemed to have entirely laid 
aside all his awkwardness, “1 do assure you 
that the only true and proper life of Art dwells 
in the breast of the Artist. From out of his 
own self only can the Artist create any thing 
great. How, otherwise, could those Artists 
who have created those same great and exalted 
models, how else could they have produced them? 
for they, surely, had not, in like manner, great 
and exalted masters before them. A great 
master may perhaps draw after him a train of 
scholars ; but he will not create great masters.” 

“ Ah, yes, very fine indeed ! what is your 
name ? I’ve really forgotten.” 

“ Hammer — Bernard Hammer.” 

“ Yes, my dear Herr Hammer — there you’re 
wrong. Just think of the schools of painting. 
Does a great master ever stand alone in his own 
time and country? Masters beget masters.” 

“ The inward, the creative energy produces 
masters. The older masters merely aid, by 
their example, to awaken, more speedily and 
vigorously, the life of the younger ones.” 

“ To awaken, to fructify ! The unfruitful 
life is a dead life. Sleep is the brother of death. 
I repeat it — you must go to the capital.” 

Bernard Hammer sighed. 

“ At the capital you will find youths of your 
own age, of similar tastes, and striving in like 
manner. One awakens, inspires, impels the 
other. The works of the great masters, in the 
noble galleries, present themselves for emulation. 
And patrons of Art, will there offer you their 
assistance.” 

“ But the means of going there, and of making 
one’s self known ?” asked young Hammer, in a 
somewhat melancholy tone. “ One acquires 
patrons only after a long time of endeavor and 
of endurance. In the mean while, how many 
fail!” 

“ But not the bold ones. Fortuna audaces 
juvat — Fortune favors the bold !” 

“But my poor relations?” Bernard looked 


13 

around for his sister. He started as he missed 
her. “ Anna !” cried he, involuntarily. 

“ You’re looking for your sister. She’s pro- 
bably gone to bed.” 

“ But the officer who was sitting by her has 
gone too.” 

“ Oh, he’s gone to see the Captain, to report 
himself. He’s just entered the service. Don’t 
be alarmed. Your sister will be well taken 
care of here. This is a very careful inn. Fine 
people, and especially a most excellent landlady. 
Let us talk further. I take a great interest in 
Art. I’m a bit of an amateur myself.” 

“Yes, like that monarch who could sell his 
pictures only to the Jewish money-lender of the 
court,” broke in von der Gruben, with a laugh. 

“ Ah, What story’s that ? Let’s hear it, 
Gruben,” cried Count Engelhart, who, appa- 
rently, had not heard a word of the conversa- 
tion, but had been thinking, in the most uninter- 
rupted quietude of his meerschaum. 

“ The story is a very simple one,” answered 
Herr von der Gruben. “ William the First of 
Prussia thought he was an artist, and painted 
the portraits of his generals and ministers. 
When he had got a good part of them done, he 
summoned the money-lender. ‘ Aaron,’ said he, 
‘ you know how to appraise every thing, what 
do you think these portraits are worth apiece ?’ 
The Jew was anxious to play the courtier. 
‘ Twenty Fredericks d’or apiece, your Majesty, 
between you and I.’ — ‘ You shall have them for 
that,’ exclaimed the King. An exclamation of 
discontent was choked on the lips of the Jew by 
a forced smile. 1 Your Majesty is most gracious 
to poor Aaron.’ He paid the money, and sent 
away the pictures. They were shockingly done 
— mere caricatures.” 

“ An expensive piece of flattery.” 

“A Jew completely overreached.” 

“ Hold your peace. If the King was cunning, 
the Jew was no fool. He took the pictures 
around to the ministers and generals. ‘Would 
your Excellency like to have your Excellency’s 
portrait? Painted by his Most Gracious Maj- 
esty’s own hand — between ourselves, are worth 
fifty Fredericks d’or apiece. At your service 
for forty — can’t let them go a penny less.’ — ■ 
‘ Why, Jew, you are crazy. Be off with you !’ 
The Jew went off. The next day the portraits 
were lying in his shop window, among rubbish 
of all sorts ; under each of them was written the 
name of the original. Every one ran there in 
great astonishment, and laughed and shouted, 
and hurra’d at the daubs. The next day the 
Jew had his forty Fredericks d’or apiece for 
them.” 

They all laughed ; but poor Bernard Ham- 
mer’s was only a half-laugh. He was thinking 
about his absent sister. 

“ That puts me in mind of another story,” 
said Martini. “ There lived at Vienna, a few 
years ago, a poor daub of a painter. Times 
went hard with him. At last he hit on an odd 
expedient. He painted a great number of male 
half-lengths, in Hungarian costume. He fin- 


14 


ANNA HAMMER. 


ished them entirely — all but the mustache. 
Next winter he took his collection to Pressburg, 
to Pesth and Ofen, to Debrezcin. He adver- 
tised himself as a portrait painter, who only 
required one short sitting. That took with the 
restless Hungarians. They came, they sat. 
The painter chose one of his pictures. All he 
had to do was to add the peculiar cut and hang 
of the mustache — and the portrait was finished 
— a most speaking likeness — for — ” 

“For,” chimed in Count Engelhart, “in 
Hungary the national resemblance is so great, 
that every body has the same features as every 
body else ; only each wears the mustache in his 
own fashion.” 

“ You’ve hit it. exactly, brother.” 

A smothered cry was heard. It appeared to 
proceed from above, from within the house. 

Young Hammer sprang up. “ What was 
that?” he exclaimed, turning pale. 

“ What should it be ? The servants are 
quarreling.” 

“No, no. I’m anxious about it.” 

“ Just a common quarrel between the serv- 
ants and the maids. Sit down again.” 

The young man was sitting down, in a hesi- 
tating manner, when a fearful scream was heard 
— “ Help ! Help !” It was a woman’s voice, 
and came from the upper story of the inn. 

“My sister!” cried Bernard Hammer; and 
with a single bound he was at the door, and out 
of the room. 

Several people came running to the spot — 
the landlord and landlady, and several inmates 
of the inn. They looked up the stairs, but 
seemed undecided whether they should go up. 
Young Hammer burst through them. In three 
strides he was at the top of the stairs. A door 
was flung violently open. His sister rushed out 
w r ith a terrified face, as pale as a corpse. “ Vil- 
lain ! Monster ! Save me !” she exclaimed. 

Behind her, out of the same door, walked 
Prince Amberg. He seemed perfectly com- 
posed, only his fine features seemed a little pale 
and excited. A haughty, supercilious smile 
played upon his lips. 

Anna Hammer flung herself into her broth- 
er’s arms. “ Save me, Bernard,” she cried. 
“ The villain, the wretch, the fiend !” She 
trembled fearfully. 

Prince Amberg was on the point of passing, 
but Bernard Hammer let go his hold of his sis- 
ter, and sprang upon him. “ Sir,” exclaimed 
he, “ what have you been doing to my sister ? 
What have you been attempting w 7 ith the child ? 
Give an account of yourself! Give me satis- 
faction.” 

The Prince laughed. “ Satisfaction ! Ask 
the little strumpet herself what she wants.” 

“ Strumpet ! Sir, you don’t stir from the 
spot.” He seized the Prince by the breast 
with a powerful hand. The Prince tried to 
free himself. His uniform was torn. Bernard 
Hammer received a blow in the face. But it 
seemed as though superhuman strength had 
suddenly sprung up in the youth. He seized 


the Prince w r ith both hands, and shook him till 
the strong man became almost insensible. He 
then flung him to the floor. 

By this time the other officers had followed 
young Hammer. They rushed up the stairs, 
and dragged him off from the gasping Prince. 

“ Boor! clown!” cried von Gruben and Mar- 
tini, striking him w T ith their fists. 

“ Don’t befoul yourself ; leave him to the 
men,” said Count Engelhart, pointing to a 
group of soldiers who had gathered at the foot 
of the stairs. 

“You are right, comrade; the fellow is like 
a mad dog. He can not disgrace the uniform 
I wear.” 

The officers seized the young man, and with 
their united strength, flung him dow T n the 
stairs. 

“ There, lads ! There you have the vaga- 
bond player, w T ho w T ould assault your officers.” 

The soldiers laid hold of their prey, and bore 
him, with loud shouts, from the house, closing 
the door behind them. The officers w r ent back 
into the room, to their bowl of cardinal ; the 
Prince previously changing his uniform in haste. 
The inmates of the inn stood looking at each 
other in silence. 

Anna Hammer was, for a few moments, in a 
state of complete exhaustion. She came to her- 
self, as her brother w r as hurled dow r n the stairs. 
With a shriek she flew after him. But she 
came too late ; the soldiers w'ere already out of 
doors w T ith their victim. In vain she shook the 
street door, w T hich was held fast from without. 
From outside arose a wfild tumult; curses, 
shrieks, dragging, thrusting. 

The strength of the young girl began to fail, 
notwithstanding her terrible agony. The door 
w T ould not yield to her efforts. She turned in 
despair to the host and hostess : 

“ For God’s sake, save my poor brother; the 
savages will abuse him, he is so w r eak, so ill.” 

The landlord shrugged his shoulders. “ What 
can w r e do against the soldiers ?” said he. 

“For the sake of my poor old mother,” be- 
sought the girl. “For my sister’s sake! He 
is our sole support. Without him we are lost. 
And he is so good, so noble !” 

The landlady w T ent aw r ay, she seemed to be 
unable to endure the lamentation of the girl. 

The landlord again shrugged his shoulders. 
“ The soldiery are too strong. The officers 
themselves sometimes can do nothing w T ith 
them.” 

The uproar without had augmented. Screams 
and outcries were intermingled. The thronging 
and tumult increased. Nothing could be clearly 
distinguished. All at once amidst the confusion 
the voice of young Hammer was heard crying 
in a piercing tone of the utmost, extremest ag- 
ony. “ Help ! Help ! They are murdering 
me !” 

Immediately there was a dull, heavy fall upon 
the pavement, then a wfild hurrah from many 
voices. All was then still, as though death had 
sw r ept over the street. 


THE EJECTMENT. 


15 


“They have murdered him! 5 ’ screamed the 
girl. “ They have murdered my brother !” 

She rushed into the room in which were the 
officers. “ Save him ! Save him ! Oh, for 
heaven’s sake, save my poor brother !” 

“ Young ’un,” said Martini, with a quiet 
sneer, “ I don’t think you are wanted here.” 

At that moment the sound of a post-horn rang 
gayly before the house, and a carriage halted at 
the door. 

“ Another extra-post, at so late an hour ! 
This seems to be a day of adventures,” yawned 
Count Engelhart. 

Directly afterward the street door was heard 
to open, and in a few moments the door of the 
room also opened. A lady, in an elegant trav- 
eling-dress, entered, preceded by the landlord. 
She w T as tall, and rather full than slender. Her 
complexion was fresh, and her eyes lively. Her 
whole demeanor and motions were those of the 
best society. 

As she entered, Prince Amberg sprang up in 
surprise. “ Madame von Horberg — my gra- 
cious Lady — what an unexpected pleasure !” 

“ You here, my Prince ! What an unlooked- 
for meeting !” 

Anna Hammer had started up at the arrival 
of the lady. The idea of a last possible help 
rushed through her mind, when she saw that 
the Prince was acquainted with the lady. She 
came quickly up to her, and embraced her 
knees. “Oh, my gracious Lady,” she implored, 
“ have pity on my poor brother ; do speak a 
word to the gentlemen for him, that they save 
him from the hands of the soldiers !” 

“ Won’t the little toad be off?” said Prince 
Amberg, advancing ; and then, addressing the 
lady, he added : “ A singing-girl, an impudent 
vagabond, who with her brother have been com- 
mitting scandal here !” 

“ Oh, fie !” said the lady, pushing the child 
in disgust from her, with her foot, not with her 
hand. 

Anna Hammer arose to her feet. Feelings 
the most woeful and bitter thronged through 
her young heart. But from that moment she 
was no longer a child. The last hour had 
ripened her into a woman. She cast a look of 
contempt upon the lady and the officers, and 
left the room in silence. She crossed the vacant 
hall, and passed through the open door into the 
street. Here all was still. No living being 
was to be seen. A cold wind swept across. 
She looked around. A gleam of moonlight 
which pierced the driving clouds, showed her 
a dark body lying sideways along the street. 
She drew near : it w T as her brother ; he was 
covered with blood ; he did not move. She 
flung herself upon him. He still breathed. 

Poor, unfortunate sister ! 

A.t the same instant an officer came riding 
up. He stopped before the inn ; dismounted, 
gave his horse to the servant who followed him, 
and went into the house. 

In the apartment sat Prince Amberg in the 
intimate conversation of old acquaintanceship 


with the lady. When the newly-arrived officer 
entered, he sprang up hastily, buckled on his 
sabre in a moment, placed his helmet on his 
head, and stepped in front of the officer, in the 
complete uniform of the service. “ Captain, I 
have the honor to report myself — Prince Am- 
berg — transferred to your squadron.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE EJECTMENT. 

It was early on a bright morning. The 
laborers at the farm-house had long been gone 
a-field, with plow, harrow, and horses. The 
maids had cleaned up the hall, kitchen, and 
threshing-floor, and were busy, some of them in 
the garden, digging and planting, some of them 
by the kitchen-fire, in the wash-house, or in the 
chambers where the winter stores were collect- 
ed, ready to be assorted. The cows in the 
great stall were already milked, and had been 
freshly foddered. The farmer had early ex- 
changed his jerkin for his coat, and had taken 
hat and stick and gone out, and was not yet 
returned. 

The good dame was going about the exten- 
sive farm-buildings to see that every thing w T as 
in order. She was a tall, stout, healthy woman. 
Her years might be at the end of the thirties, or 
the beginning of the forties. She was still fresh- 
looking, and her countenance might even yet be 
denominated handsome. Although they no long- 
er had the fine, delicate loveliness of youth, 
which nature has certainly not made the exclusive 
possession of the so-called upper classes, yet the 
features were regular, and still bore traces of 
former beauty. A deep gravity lay upon her 
forehead, and her eyes had an unquiet expres- 
sion. 

First she looked into the kitchen, at the 
hearth, the pots and kettles, the supply of wood 
for the day ; at the potatoes which were peeled 
for dinner, and at the shining plates and platters. 
Then she went, followed by the kitchen-maid, 
into the meat-room close by, and gave out meat 
and seasoning for dinner. From thence she went 
into the milk-room, looked at and counted over 
the milk-pans, which stood there in orderly 
rows, hardly to be taken in at a look. Those 
which had just been brought in she examined, 
in addition to counting them. Her look* ex- 
pressed satisfaction ; but when she went out, 
and cast behind a look at the whole array, at 
the numerous brown pans with their snowy con- 
tents, the gravity upon her brow deepened into 
sorrow. From the milk-room she went into the 
spacious threshing-floor. It was so clean and 
neat, that one might have found a needle w T hich 
had been dropped upon it. Upon both sides of 
it were stalls ; for the horses on the right, on 
the left for the cows. She went to the former, 
in the first place. It w T as almost empty, for the 
horses were at work in the fields. Only a few 
brood-mares, with their young foals, were lying 


ANNA HAMMER. 


16 

upon the clean white straw, and caressing their 
colts by their sides. Thence she turned to the 
opposite cow-stalls. Here it looked more ani- 
mated and gay. In long rows were standing 
at their cribs the brown, white, black, and spot- 
ted animals, smooth, shining, and -well-fed, en- 
joying the fragrant hay. The good dame knew 
each of them separately. She went up to each 
one and stroked it ; but she had no friendly 
word as formerly, but went in silence from one 
to the other. Pleasure at their sleek and plump 
appearance contended in her eyes for the mas- 
tery with a great grief and dejection. 

Above the stalls was a series of chambers, in 
W’hich were stores of hemp, flax and yarn ; and, 
more than every thing else, a great stock of 
snowy linen, from the heavy goods for domestic 
use, to the finest damask. The woman stood 
for a long w T hile upon the threshold, looking 
around and feasting her eyes ; but she turned 
suddenly aside, went back into the kitchen, and 
out into the court. 

The court was large, broad, and spacious. 
On one side were the buildings ; in the centre 
of which, and separated from them by a moder- 
ate space, was the main structure, built of brick 
of a dark-red color, and covered with tiles of a 
bright red. On the east and south sides were 
espaliers, but the leaves not being yet grown, 
they were of a gray color, with bare tendrils. 
The windows were furnished with bright-green 
blinds. On two sides of the house were sheds 
for wagons, sledges, plows, and the other uten- 
sils of a farm, and near by were wash-house, 
bake-house, and other smaller buildings. Op- 
posite the main building, in a pleasant garden, 
was another and smaller dwelling-house, almost 
pleasanter than the farm-house itself. This was 
the infirmary. It was at this time untenanted. 
The present possessors of the farm would oc- 
cupy it, at some future day, when they should 
have resigned the estate to the more vigorous 
hands of one of their children. But any one 
who looked upon the robust dame would have 
been convinced that it would be a longr time 
before this would happen. 

Directly in the rear of the infirmary com- 
menced a thick forest, which surrounded the 
farm on three sides ; the garden and plowed { 
fields, and meadows lay beyond the house, and 
stretched away as far as the eye could penetrate. 
The shrubbery in the forest had already begun 
to put on its green attire; the higher beeches 
also showed in places their delicate and tender 
leaves; but the tall oaks still stood gray and 
naked in the air. 

Not far from the dwelling-house, upon a some- 
what elevated spot in the court, stood a long 
table of white polished fir-wood. By the side of 
it were green benches ; an elm-tree spread its j 
long thick boughs above it. Close by was a 
group of walnut-trees, a couple of chestnuts, i 
w T ith the white and red flowers just budding, and 
five or six ancient oaks, which seemed to have 
bidden defiance to the storms of centuries, had 
seen many an edifice rise and fall upon the spot, [ 


and many a generation grow up and sink into 
the grave. 

The warm rays of the spring sun greeted 
pleasantly the good dame, as she stepped out 
into the court. A gentle breeze bore to her 
the fresh odor of the shrubbery, and of the 
young leaves of the trees. A multitude of birds 
were twittering and chattering, and rejoicing 
every where among the trees. The wood- 
pecker w’as tapping away upon the dry branches 
of the oak. The larks hovered and sang above 
the house, high up in the air. 

The good woman at first looked around her 
to see if all w r as in proper order. She seemed 
satisfied. She then inhaled pleasantly the fresh 
breeze of morning, and w r atched the joyous labor 
of the birds. 

Two children came out of the garden of the 
infirmary. A boy of six or seven years old, 
drew T a w T agon in w T hich sat a little girl, of some 
three years. Both children were the very pic- 
tures of health and happiness. The boy ran 
shouting tow T ard the woman, the wagon rattling 
on behind. He came up to her w T ith a joyous 
“ Good-morning, mother ! Take hold of my 
hands !” She pressed his hands, and then 
stooped over the child in the wagon, kissed 
her, and then took her up and set her on the 
ground. 

“ You have got up early this morning, my 
children,” said she. 

“ Yes, we have, mother,” said the child, un- 
concernedly. “Father said yesterday that this 
might be the last day we should be here, and I 
thought I w r ould draw little Maggy around a 
bit.” 

“ You are a good boy. But your father, per- 
haps, w T as not in earnest. We shall stay here 
to-day, and many days more, I hope.” 

“ That’s fine. Then i shall get my own little 
bit, of land, and a piece oflf the meadow for my- 
self; and I can raise the calf and the colt, that 
my father has given me.” 

“ That you can, and you shall.” 

“ And I my chickens,” said the little girl. 

“Yes,” my little Maggy. 

The mother w r ent with the children into the 
infirmary garden. She seated herself upon a 
bench in an arbor ; and took the girl upon her 
lap, w’hile the boy remained standing before her. 
She looked thoughtfully around upon the sub- 
stantial farm-house, and upon the pleasant in- 
firmary building before her. 

“ You are so still to-day, mother ; do you 
w T ant any thing?” said the boy. 

“ No, my child ; it will soon pass aw T ay.” 

A neighbor came in through the gate of the 
court. He looked about upon all sides ; w T hen 
he perceived the woman, he w r ent up to her. 

Good-morning, neighbor,” said he. How 
goes it ?” 

“ Good-morning, neighbor. How t should it 
go?” 

“I don’t see any signs of change. Isn’t the 
Commission coming ?” 

“ 1 think not.” 


THE EJECTMENT. 


17 


“ Is your husband at home ?” 

“ He has gone out.” 

“Do you really suppose that the gentlemen 
won t come. Don’t flatter yourself. These are 
evil times.” 

“ Oh, they can not surely come.” 

“ Don’t think that neighbor. Any thing can 
happen nowadays.” 

“ Hark ye neighbor; why do you tell me such 
unwelcome things ? Misfortune will come soon 
enough at all events. There is no need of call- 
ing it.” 

“Ah, neighbor, don’t be angry with me. My 
intention was good. It’s well to be prepared 
when evil lights upon one. And, believe me, 
the times are bad enough now. The poor are 
sorely oppressed ; the great lords have all the 
power ; justice is no longer to be found upon 
earth ; for the people there is no such thing. 
The nobles and the officers are too strong.” 

“ But we have the law yet, neighbor. And 
rich and poor, high and low, must go by the 
law.” 

“ It should be so, it should be so. But what’s 
the use of the law, when w'e haven’t honest 
judges. When the stewards bully us, and the 
collectors cheat us, there’s nobody dares to look 
into the matter.” 

“But there are superior officers, who are 
above stewards and collectors.” 

“ Ah, but it’s a great and a long chain. 
Hawks don’t pick out hawks’ eyes. Each one 
needs the other. The collector invites the bailiff 
to dinner, and makes him presents. The bailiff 
sends the best horses in the stall to the presi- 
dent. The president is a good friend of the 
minister’s. And the nobles are good friends of 
them all.” 

The woman arose. “ It’s breakfast time, 
neighbor Littlejohn ; come in with me. My hus- 
band will not be long away.” 

They went toward the house. When they 
were within a few steps of it, two carriages 
drove up to the court. In each of them were 
several gentlemen. Upon the box of one of them 
sat a couple of gendarmes ; upon the other were 
two constables. 

“ There theyare already,” said neighbor Little- 
john. “ Compose yourself.” 

A passionate expression shot across the face 
of the woman for an instant ; but she composed 
herself. She took little Margaret in her arms, 
and remained standing before the door, waiting 
for what was to happen. 

The gendarmes and the constables sprang 
down from the box. The gentlemen alighted 
from their carriages. One of them a little fat, 
thickset man approached the woman. 

“ I am come upon a very unpleasant business 
to day, Mrs. Oberhage,” said he, with a sort of 
friendliness which was not at all pleasant. 

The woman stood still, and made no reply. 

“ But one’s duty, Mrs. Oberhage. Believe 
me, it is often very unpleasant ; but never has 
it been so unpleasant for me as it is to-day.” 

The woman made no answer. 

B 


“ Believe me, this is a very unhappy day for 
me.” 

“ You have never brought any happy news to 
us, Herr Justice,” said the woman, bitterly. 

One of the other gentlemen now came up. 
He was a tall, thin, and haughty-looking person 
with two decorations upon his breast. The 
Justice wore but one, in his button-hole. 

“ I think, Herr Justice, we may as well begin 
our business.” 

“ Oh, gentlemen,” said the woman, quietly 
rather than with excitement ; “ I hope you will 
wait. My husband has gone out, and our law- 
yer is not here. I hope that they will both be 
here presently.” 

“ What are they to us?” interrupted the Com- 
missioner, carelessly. “ The matter is decided ; 
there’s nothing more to be done.” 

“The affair is not decided. The day is not 
yet ended,” answered the woman eagerly. 

“ I quite understand your feelings, my good 
woman; but don’t make any useless delay. Let 
us go into the house, Herr Justice, and begin.” 

“Do be perfectly composed my dear Mrs. 
Oberhage,” said the Justice, with the most en- 
gaging friendliness. 

The gentlemen went into the house, followed by 
the constables, the gendarmes remaining without. 

From the house rushed a young girl, of some 
eighteen or nineteen years. She was tall and 
slender ; she had regular and pleasing features, 
blue eyes, and light hair. Her whole aspect was 
pervaded by a quiet and somewhat pensive beauty. 
She wore the ordinary garb of the young country 
women of the district; but either it was mado 
of finer material than usual, or some peculiarity 
in the shape, which could hardly be defined, or 
there was something peculiar in the carriage of 
the maiden ; some or all of these gave her a 
somewhat ideal aspect. She grew red and pale 
by turns, as she hastened up to the woman, and 
flung both arms around her, hiding her face in 
her bosom. 

“Is it then true, mother?” she asked. “Are 
they here ? Is all lost ?” 

“ Silly child, what should be lost ?” replied the 
woman coolly, and even sternly, casting a glance 
of displeasure at the witnesses around. 

“But they are here, mother !” sobbed the 
girl; “and father is away. He is not with us 
in this distressing time !” 

“ Your father will soon be back. Collect 
yourself before these strangers. We must not 
give these villains a malicious pleasure,” she 
said gently pushing the girl from her. “ Go to 
the foreman,” she continued, “he is out behind 
the barn. Tell him to ride to the town at once, 
and fetch your father. He will find him with 
the lawyer. He must take a horse from the 
nearest field. He must not go the nearest way 
through the meadow, but take the high-road; 
perhaps he may meet him there.” 

She gave these directions with perfect calm- 
ness. The daughter went. 

Meanwhile several neighbors had arrived frr 
i different directions. The warmest sympa 


18 


ANNA HAMMER. 


was depicted upon all their faces, mingled with 
feelings of wrath, excitement, and bitterness. 
These feelings were loudly expressed, notwith- 
standing the presence of the gendarmes and the 
constables. 

“ And so they are in earnest, neighbor,” said 
an old farmer. “ They’re going to drive you by 
force from house and home.” 

Not yet, neighbor Hartmann !” said the 
woman, with great apparent calmness. “You 
know that we have just sent off another petition. 
We must consider nothing lost, so long as all is 
not lost.” 

“Yes, maybe; yes, maybe. But don’t be too 
confident. This is a bad world. Just look at 
that false Justice, and that proud Commissioner. 
They two have brought all this misfortune upon 
you, and they’re not ashamed to come here, to 
tickle their eyes with the sight of your lamenta- 
tion.” 

“ Not with our lamentation !” responded the 
woman, with a tone and expression than which a 
queen could not have manifested a nobler or 
prouder. “It is true,” she added, “that these 
two men have done all in their power to drive 
us from this farm, where I and my husband, and 
my fathers, for more than two hundred years, 
have lived and labored.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the old farmer; “the little 
Justice there said ten years ago, that there were 
papers in his office that w’ould make it all over 
with you, if he should only bring them up.” 

“ So he told my husband, to try to make him buy 
ihese papers. And when my husband w T ould have 
nothing to do with him, he told me the same.” 

“ And when you sent him about his business, 
he laid heads together with the Commissioner, 
who had just come from the capital, and was 
sent to the Chamber.” 

“ That’s a scoundrelly fellow, good neighbor 
Oberhage. He don’t care for any body. He 
only cares for the revenues, and taxes, and im- 
posts, and dues. There isn’t a farm in the dis- 
trict that he hasn’t loaded with great burdens. 
Day and night is he searching among the ancient 
registers and archives to find out new claims for 
the revenue, and to oppress the poor farmers. 
He brought forw r ard some old documents show- 
ing that your farm really belonged to the Sover- 
eign — to the treasury. The fat Justice has put 
him up to that.” 

“ That the farm had once belonged to the 
Sovereign,” said the woman, correcting him, 
"more than two hundred years ago; but my 
fathers bought it honorably from the government. 
My grandfather had the papers in his own pos- 
session. At his death they could not be found. 
My father was absent when my grandfather died, 
so the Court took charge of the documents which 
he left, and sealed them up. The papers got 
into the Court at that time, and we have never 
seen them since. They said that they were not 
with the documents under seal, or that they had 
been lost.” 

“ That cunning Justice knows well enough 
where ihev are.” 


“But who can prove it? We charged him 
with it. He laughed, and threatened to bring 
an action for damages. And then they com- 
menced the suit against us. The old papers held 
valid, and to the ancient laws which the govern- 
ment itself had made, they betook themselves, 
and turned and twisted, till they decided that the 
farm belonged to the government.” 

“ The poor people can no longer get their 
rights any where. Justice cries out to heaven. 
All the judges care for is to please the nobles 
and the government, to get some order or other, 
or an increase of salary, or a better post.” 

tC But I have one hope left,” said the woman. 
“ We have just sent a petition to the Sovereign. 
We have set forth clearly and expressly the in- 
justice which the Court and the Chamber has 
done us. We have told him all : how" the Jus- 
tice tried to make a bargain with us for the in- 
formation he had got; how T he has stolen our 
papers ; how he has conspired with the Com- 
missioner ; and how they two have gone to work 
together, and have got up witnesses to ruin us. 
We expect the decision every moment. If there 
is a spark of justice left in the heart of the Prince, 
he will not suffer us to be driven away from the 
farm.” 

“ My poor woman, don’t put any trust in that.” 

“ I may trust in that ; for I trust in God and 
in good men.” 

“ In good men ! Good men have likewise a 
heart for the poor peasantry. But where will 
you find a heart up there for the poor peasant?” 

The woman was called into the house by a 
maid. She went, taking the two children with 
her. 

“ Shall we look quietly upon such injustice?” 
asked one of the peasants. 

“ They can drive us all from house and home,” 
said another. 

“ That’s what those fine gentlemen up there 
would do,” said a third. “ Just as they govern 
the country all alone, and poor folks mustn’t say 
a "word, so they would like at last to get all our 
property. The whole country must belong only 
to the treasury and the nobles, and we must be 
bondmen and serfs, as in old times. They only 
endure us, because otherwise there would not b« 
any body to pay taxes.” 

“ And so,” interrupted another, “ they make 
the laws for themselves only, in such a way that 
they can get every thing to themselves, and at 
last we shall have nothing left.” 

“In other countries,” suggested another, “it 
is not su. There they have Diets, where the 
burghers and the peasants have seats, and a voice 
as good as that of the nobles, or of the king him- 
self. So I’ve read in the newspapers. They can’t 
make any laws unless the peasants give their 
consent to them. So it is in Norway. The peas- 
ant there counts for something.” 

“ So it is in Belgium, and in Switzerland, and 
in Holland, and in France, and almost every 
where in other countries. Only in our country 
and in Russia is it that the peasants have no 
rights.” 


THE EJECTMENT. 


19 


“In former times,” said old Hartmann, “it 
wasn’t any other wise with us. The free peas- 
antry sat in the Diet with prelates and knights, 
and burghers ; and if the sovereign wanted taxes 
or money any way, he had to ask all the orders 
for it ; and in granting it, the peasants had a 
vote as much as any body else. Therefore the 
lords dared not touch our rights, for they always 
wanted taxes.” 

“And why haven’t we our rights any longer?” 

“ The French took them from us, and gave 
them to the rulers whom they set over us, or 
left over us. And so the princes were bound to 
them. And when afterwards the French were 
driven out of the country, the princes kept what 
they had given to them. The people drove out 
the oppressor ; but they were still oppressed for 
all that.” 

“ Let us demand back our rights and privi- 
leges.” 

“ Just do so, if you wish to walk off to prison. 
That’s the law, which they have made up there 
for us. Three men can not even come together, 
to talk over political affairs as they call it, that 

is, the affairs of our own district. They call it 
insurrection or treason, and lock a man up for' 

it. Have you forgotten how, a few years ago, 
some men came together, who wished well to 
the people, who wished to teach us our rights, 
and who wished to bring it about that we should 
get our rights again, and all by fair and peace- 
ful means ? What has become of those men ? 
They have been condemned to death, and shut 
up in prison for life, where they can see neither 
sun nor moon as long as they live : and their 
families are living in sorrow, and want, and 
misery.” 

The conversation ceased. The peasants look- 
ed down, lost in thought. 

Two men now came into the court, wearing 
the ordinary dress of the peasantry. Both were 
of robust figures, of some forty or fifty years. 
They came within the circle of the peasants, 
and were received with a silent shake of the 
hand. The elder looked around ; his eyes rest- 
ed upon the coaches, the gendarmes, and the 
constables. No emotion was visible upon his 
iron visage. 

“ They have come sooner than I expected,” 
said he. 

“ They’re never behind time, when there’s 
any thing to be got,” was the reply. 

The woman came out from the house. She 
still had the younger child in her arms ; the boy 
followed behind her. Her eyes were directed 
anxiously toward the town. The new-comers 
went up to her. 

“ Have you come alone, father?” she asked 
of the elder. 

“ My brother has come with me.” 

“ Good-day, sister-in-law.” The companion of 
the former speaker shook hands with the woman, 

“ Good-day, brother-in-law. — And the law- 
yer ?” 

“ The lawyer, will come soon. He had not 
time at the moment.” 


“ And the answer to our petition to the 
Prince ?” The anxiety with which she await- 
ed the reply, was evident. 

“ It had not yet arrived.” 

“ Then there is hope yet.” 

“ No, I think not,” answered the man hesi- 
tatingly ; and then he went on with a firmer 
voice. “ Just listen, mother, we must com- 
pose ourselves. We must be ready for the 
worst. I’ve been a-talking the matter over 
with our lawyer. The Commission is here to 
put into execution the legal decision, so the law- 
yer says. We can’t do aught against it. We 
can’t count on the answer from the Prince to- 
day, even if we can count upon it at all. We 
must — the word must out — we must away 
from the farm to-day. What’s ours we can take 
with us.” 

“Must we indeed? and to-day! this very 
hour !” 

“ We must. This very hour.” 

“ And without house and home ! without a 
shelter ! — Oh, in God’s name !” 

“ Not without a shelter. My brother will 
take us in. He’s come with me to fetch us. 
We shan’t starve — we nor the children. We’re 
strong yet.” 

The woman looked down in silence ; she 
pressed the child to her breast. 

The husband continued, “ Maybe a decision ’ll 
come from the capital that will put us all back 
again ; and then we will come again into full 
possession.” 

“I can’t yet give up all hope,” said the 
woman. “ People can’t be so wicked as that. 
It isn’t possible that they can take away from 
us every thing that has been ours, lawfully and 
without dispute, for hundreds and hundreds of 
years. There can be no God in Heaven, if jus- 
tice is so abused.” 

“ Who’s in there ?” said the man, pointing to 
the house. 

“ Commissioner von Eilenthal and the Justice. 
They have some gentlemen with them. One of 
them they call the Administrator. The farm is 
to be put into his hands ; he will take charge of 
it. They’re writing down every thing in the 
house — making an inventory, they call it.” 

The officials now came out into the court- 
yard. They approached the farmer and his 
wife. 

“ Oh, there you are, Oberhage,” said the 
Justice, with unaltered friendliness. “Your 
good woman has been telling you that we’ve 
been at work.” 

“ Oh, yes, Herr Justice, and fine work it is for 
you !” 

“ Duty — hard, unpleasant duty, my dear 
friend.” 

“ It’s a duty that pays, Herr Justice,” said 
the woman. “ It’s brought you your order 
already, and the increase of salary will soon 
follow.” 

“ Oh, my dear woman ! Don’t you think it. 
We poor officers have to earn our bread by the 
sweat of our brow. — But what I was going 


20 


ANNA HAMMER. 


to say, Oberhage — you know that you will have 
to leave the farm to-day. You have had the 
official notification. 5 ’ 

“ I. know it.” 

“ I would like to ask you to be as quick as 
you can. Whatever belongs to you, you can 
take with you. But, you understand, only 
what belongs to you — what’s your own proper- 
ty.” 

“ I know, Herr Justice : nothing that’s in the 
inventory. The lawyer has explained it to 
me.” 

“ You are an intelligent man.” 

“Herr Justice,” interposed the woman, “we 
have sent a petition to the Prince. The answer 
may come any minute. Till it comes, we sure- 
ly need not leave.” 

“ But, my dear Mrs. Oberhage, remember 
the legal sentence. You have gone through all 
the procedure. Justice must now take its 
course.” 

“ Justice !” exclaimed the woman, bitterly. 
“ But we won’t speak of that, sir. But the 
Prince has the power of deciding whether or no 
he will have our property. He can’t take the 
farm. He can’t want stolen property. You 
must surely wait for his decision. You are his 
officers. The farm won’t run away from you.” 

“ Woman,” interposed Commissioner von 
Eilenthal, in a haughty tone, “ indulge in no 
vain delusions. I can tell you the decision 
which you will receive from the cabinet. I am 
perfectly aware what it is. The Deputy has 
transmitted your petition to the Minister, the 
Minisler sent it to the Chamber for a report. 
The report I drew up myself.” 

“ Then our fate is decided,” said the farmer. 

“Your own good sense informs you rightly. 
Justice must take her free course.” 

“ It is an ill time for poor folk,” said the 
woman. “ Our persecutors are set as judges 
over us, and they thrust themselves in between 
the ruler and the people, so that he can’t even 
hear their just complaints. They only are list- 
ened to, we never.” 

“ My good woman, the officer has done only 
his duty.” 

“Yes, yes, Herr Commissioner; we know 
all that already. Every one looks out for him- 
self. Maybe you’ll soon have reached your 
own object. You’ve made enough poor folks 
poorer to enter the Ministry before long, or to 
be made President. That’s what you’ve been 
trying for.” 

The Commissioner turned to the Justice : 
“ Let us proceed with our business.” 

They went farther back up the court ; count- 
ed and estimated the oaks and the other trees 
that stood there ; and then passed to the other 
side of the house. The farmer turned to the 
neighbors, who had then arrived. He asked 
them to assist him in removing the things that 
belonged to him ; to lend him their horses and 
wagons and harness, as the lawyer had told 
him that the wagons and horses on the farm 
were no longer his property, but belonged to 


the inventory. The most willing assistance 
was promised. 

At that moment some one came riding hastily 
up from the town. The eyes of the woman 
lighted up with joy, but only for a moment. 
The pallor of anxious expectation soon took the 
place of joy. “ The lawyer,” said she ; “ what 
can he bring ?” 

She thought, she felt, that the final decision 
of their fate had now arrived. All felt thus 
with her. 

The lawyer dismounted from his horse. His 
grave features bore the impress of sorrow. He 
turned to the farmer : “ You had scarcely gone, 
Oberhage, when the post arrived. It brought 
the long-expected decision.” 

All crowded around him in silence. Not a 
breath was audible. The decision was adverse. 
By the report of the Chamber, the case must be 
decided. 

“ Then all is lost !” said he who had been 
the owner of the farm. 

The woman pressed the child in her arms 
closer to her breast ; took the boy by the hand, 
and went quietly toward the house. 

The neighbors dispersed to bring their horses 
and wagons. 

But more bitter moments were in store for 
these unfortunates. Up to that very day the 
woman had entertained no doubt as to the result 
of the petition. Her husband, though he had 
little confidence, could not bring himself to over- 
throw her hopes. The departure from the farm 
thus took place almost without preparation. Of 
the things that were strictly their own property, 
few had been selected, none were packed up. 
The farmer and his wife went about the business 
in silence, the elder daughter assisting. Her 
tears fell wherever they went or stood. The 
mother did not weep ; the farmer seemed to 
gain strength from the strength of the wife. 

While they were busy a soft step, almost in- 
audible, approached the kitchen. Some one en- 
tered. It was a large, well-clothed man, with 
thick, pendulous cheeks, a small nose, broad 
chin, with enormous spectacles before his small, 
scarcely perceptible eyes. He was dressed in 
black from head to foot, with the exception of a 
broad band about his short, neck. He cleared 
his throat as he came in, and then said, with an 
unctuous voice, “ The Lord bless you !” 

The peasant went up to him, and said, court- 
eously, “ I thank you, Herr Pastor.” The 
daughter went to him and kissed his hand, and 
left the room. The wife looked at him, gave a 
slight nod with her head, without stopping in 
her work. 

“ I heard,” said the Pastor, “ that the Com- 
missioner had arrived to eject you from the 
farm.” 

“It’s so,” replied the farmer. 

“ I have come to express my regrets. You 
must bear your lot like Christians. This suit, 
which has lasted several years, must have long 
led you to expect it.” 

i The lips of the woman quivered, as though 


THE EJECTMENT. 


she had a bitter answer on her tongue. An ap- 
pealing look from her husband fell upon her, and 
she was silent. 

The Pastor went on : u The Lord often leads 
his own into tribulation. But in every loss the 
true Christian thinks, ‘ The Lord gave, and the 
Lord hath taken away . 1 You, my dear friends, 
must think so too ; and then you will not lack 
heavenly consolation. Moreover, you should 
reflect that your case was decided according to 
the laws of your country.” 

The woman, notwithstanding the look of her 
husband, could no longer restrain herself. “ Herr 
Pastor,” she said, shortly and decidedly, “ I 
pray you spare us these speeches of consola- 
tion.” 

The small eyes of the clergyman shot fire. 
“Woman, woman,” he said, in his unctuous, 
admonitory tone, “ you were always proud and 
stiff-necked. We must humble ourselves before 
the Lord.” 

The farmer interrupted him: “ Herr Pastor, 
do not chide us to-day.” 

“ Well, well, I came here for quite a different 
purpose. You know that during the past year 
you have given more to the clergy than formerly. 
You have added to the assessment.” 

“Not, Herr Pastor, as a charge upon the 
farm, but as a voluntary offering from my wife 
and myself.” 

“ I know it ; and that’s just the reason why 
I have come. I wish to ask you, before you 
leave, to give me a written statement tjrnt dur- 
ing the last year you have given so much more 
from the farm ; and that, had you remained here, 
you would have continued so to do.” 

“ Herr Priest, I should then be laying a new 
burden upon the farm.” 

“ My good friend, were you not going to 
continue your contributions, if you had remained 
master of the farm ?” 

“ That might have been the case.” 

“ Then you can subscribe the statement with 
a good conscience.” 

“ I can not do it.” 

“ Why, only reflect. You’ll only be certify- 
ing to the truth.” 

“ I can not do it, Herr Pastor.” 

“ But just consider, and don’t be obstinate. 
The matter is very simple. You yourself have 
this very moment said, that if you had remained 
master of the farm, you would have continued 
your payments as during the last year. Why 
can’t you give that in writing ? I desire nothing 
more.” 

“ Herr Pastor, do not urge me.” 

The Pastor wished to bring forward new 
grounds of persuasion. The woman interposed : 
“ Herr Pastor, short and good ; we will not 
cheat any body — not even our enemies. So 
don’t give yourself any further trouble.” 

The clergyman was in a quandary. He was 
evidently searching for words, when the voices 
of the officials approaching, grew loud close by 
the door. He perceived that at present he could 
not attain his object. He therefore left the 


21 

kitchen, perhaps intending to return. At this 
moment the daughter came in, followed by the 
Commissioner, the Justice, and the Lawyer. 

The girl was very pale ; alarm was depicted 
on her countenance. She went quickly up to 
her mother, as though she had something im- 
portant to communicate ; she seemed at first to 
be at a loss for words. But after a pause she 
said : 

“ Mother, you sent me to the linen-chamber, 
to fetch the linen, to go on the wagon.” 

“Well, and what then?” asked the woman, 
eagerly. 

“ The gentlemen have taken away the key, 
and will not let the linen go.” 

“Who has done that? Who won’t let it?” 
cried the woman passionately, reddening with 
anger. It was evident that her Holy of Holies 
had been invaded. 

“ The Justice.” 

“ Ah, Herr Justice ! My linen ? What 
have you to do with my linen?” 

“My dear Mrs. Oberhage, I told you before 
that you can take from the farm only your own 
property, only your personal effects.” 

“Isn’t the linen my property?” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ And whose is it then ?” 

“It belongs to the farm.” 

“ The woman burst into a laugh — the laugh 
of a sudden, fierce anger. 

“ My linen, for which I, and my mother, and 
my grandmother, and my great-grandmother, 
and this girl here, too, have spun the yarn — 
which we have woven and bleached, to which 
have cleaved drops of our sweat, thousands and 
thousands of times — and they, Herr Justice, 
they belong to your farm — they belong to you — 
or to the Commissioner there, do they ?” 

She looked from one of the officials to the 
other ; and then continued, growing more calm, 
but yet scornfully : “ Think of something else ; 

but, my masters, you don’t get my linen !” 

“ It is your treasure, your pride, Mrs. Ober- 
hage,” replied the Justice, with his unvarying 
friendliness of tone ;” every body knows that ; 
but it can’t be helped. I am very sorry. But 
the linen belongs to the farm, and not to you.” 

The anger of the woman threatened to break 
loose again, when the lawyer came forward, 
saying. “His Honor the Justice is right, I 
am sorry to say. The stock of linen, in as far 
as it does not appear needful for the personal 
use of yourself and your children, pertains in 
law to the appurtenances of the farm. You 
must acknowledge that.” 

The woman cast a look upon her husband. 
There too she found no help. He looked in 
silence, with his face turned from her. 

“ Take it then,” said she resolutely. She 
endeavored to conceal a tremor which almost 
mastered her, and turned to her occupation. 
This went on rapidly, with the assistance of her 
daughter, the weeping servants, and the neigh- 
bors. 

The wagons stood before the door, ready to 


ANNA HAMMER. 


<>2 


set off, loaded with the effects of the ejected family. 
The neighbors stood around in silence, with 
sincere sympathy and restrained indignation in 
their strong countenances. The servants, labor- 
ers, and maids, small and great ; boys who had 
just been taken upon the farm, old men bowed 
with age, who had perhaps labored there for 
three generations, stood side by side alike speech- 
less, but with unrestrained grief in their faces. 
The members of the Commission were sitting at 
the long table under the elm-trees, taking their 
breakfasts ; and the gendarmes and constables 
were close by. 

The farmer, his wife, and children, remained 
within the house. They were waited for ; and 
after a while they came out. First came the 
husband, then his wife, with the youngest child 
in her arms, and leading the boy ; the elder 
daughter came last. In the mien of the parents 
and of the daughter was expressed the dignity 
of quiet submission to a hard fate. 

The husband and wife cast a searching glance 
at the wagons which stood there. They appear- 
ed to find every thing in order ; and approached 
the wagon in which seats for them had been 
prepared. The woman took the child from her 
arms, and placed her upon the ground. She did 
this, apparently, in order to be able to take 
leave. 

The husband and wife went up first to their 
neighboi's, and then to the servants, and gave 
their hands to each of them, one by one. Not 
a word was uttered. The daughter bade fare- 
well only to the servants. 

The boy was meanwhile gazing around upon 
the group. The little girl was calling to a 
brood of chickens that were picking up their 
food close by. A chicken, as white as snow, 
with a tuft upon its head, came tamely up to 
her. She took it in her hands, and began to 
play with it. All at once something seemed to 
strike the boy. He ran up to his mother, who 
had got through the sad task of bidding farewell. 

“Are we going quite away now, mother?” 
he inquired. 

“ Yes, my child, and are not coming back 
again.” 

“ Then we must take my colt and my calf 
with us, mustn’t we? You promised me, early 
this morning, that I might raise them.” 

“ I did promise you, my child ; but they don’t 
belong to us now.” 

The boy already manifested the strong mind 
of his mother. Scarce a feature of his face 
moved. 

“ Will they stay on the farm, mother ?” 

“ Yes, they will stay here.” 

He ran up to the laborei's, and begged them 
to take care of his calf and his colt, and not to 
let them want any thing. He then came quietly 
back to his mother. But now ai'ose another 
struggle. 

“ But I will take my white chicken with me, 
mother,” said the little girl, pressing the creature 
to her breast. 

“Does the chicken belong to the inventory, 


too?” asked the mother of the lawyer, who was 
standing close by among the neighbors. 

“Oh, but, Mrs. Oberhage, such a trifle — ” 

“Does the chicken belong to the inventory?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Child, we must leave the chicken here. 
I’ll give you another one.” 

“ I won’t leave my chicken. I’ll take my 
white chicken with me !” wept the child. 

The little fat Justice who had witnessed the 
transaction, arose : “ Mrs. Oberhage, let the 
child take the chicken with her. With the con- 
sent of his Honor the Commissioner, I’ll present 
it to you.” 

The child sprang up with joy, and danced the 
chicken up and down in her little hands. 

The woman stood for a moment, sti'uggling 
violently with herself. She looked at the joyous 
child. She looked upon the house and farm 
which she must leave. But quickly making her 
decision, she w T ent up to the child, took the 
chicken from her arms, and let it go. Then 
turning to the Justice, she said : 

“ Herr Justice, sorry as I am for the sake of 
the innocent child, I can accept no present from 
you or from the Commissioner.” 

She could scarcely finish the sentence. The 
strength of the stx*ong woman seemed suddenly 
to give way. Passionate tears flowed from her 
eyes. She took the weeping child in her arms, 
pressed her to her heart, and concealed her own 
tears in the child’s golden locks. In a few 
moments, the mother gave the child to her elder 
daughter. 

She then took her husband by the hand, say- 
ing, “ One more walk.” 

She led him into the little garden by the in- 
firmary, and sat down upon the bank, where 
she had sat that morning with the children. 
He seated himself by her side. 

“ Let me cry it out here,” she said, “ where 
those people can’t see it; and then my heart 
will be easy again.” 

“ Ease your heai't, mother,” he replied. 

She laid her arms upon his shoulder, and 
i*ested her face upon his bosom. He embraced 
her. The sti'ong grief within broke out into a 
violent flood of bitter tears. After a long pause, 
she raised herself up erect again. 

“ Christopher,” said she — she had not for 
years called him by that name befox*e — “ Chris- 
topher, thou art not angry with me, for crying 
like a little spoiled child?” 

“ I am pleased with thee, as I always am, 
Catharine — I can hardly keep fi'om crying my- 
self.” 

“It was too much for me. It is true I had 
often thought of this day. But it is harder than 
I had feared.” 

“ The Lord will give us elsewhere what he 
has taken from us hei'e.” 

She shook her head. “ He can not give us 
again what he has taken from us here. My 
fathers were born and died here. My father 
and my mother were carried from this farm to 
the church-yard. With pain have I here borne 


LIFE AT COURT. 


23 


to thee our children. Here have we closed the 
dying eyes of three of them. O, Christopher ! 
and must strange men now occupy these places 
— these places which joy and sorrow have made 
a sanctuary for us ?” 

The grief of the woman had in it something 
great and exalting. It lent her expressions 
which were as strange to her condition in life, 
as to her lips. 

She continued : “ And all our toil, all our 
pains, has only been for other people. The bit- 
ter sweat of my old mother, and mine, and thine, 
they will not benefit our children. We thought 
that we were wearying ourselves for our own 
children — and now we have been toiling only for 
these bloodsuckers.” 

Her husband had no comfort to offer her. 

In her grief, she still went on : “ There it is 
— the great lovely house ; there stands the green 
wood ; there lie the fields and meadows. How 
often have I thought I could see our boy ruling 
here, a stout man, with his wife by his side, as 
we were twenty years ago. And this little 
cottage which we have built and arranged so 
conveniently for our old age — who will live 
here ? We shall lay down our heads elsewhere, 
in anxiety and care.” 

“ Do not make thy heart heavy again, Cath- 
arine.” 

“ It is lighter now. It must down, that which 
lay so heavy upon it. Now let us go. The 
people will miss us.” 

She took out her handkerchief, and wiped 
her eyes, so that no one should see that she had 
been weeping. She then went with a firm step, 
back to the wagons, her husband by her side. 

It was the dinner hour. About this time, a 
half-score of poor people, old men and women, 
came every day to the farm, where they had for 
years received their food. They had just made 
their customary appearance. They stood on one 
side with sad and downcast looks. The woman 
looked at them. It was her last trial in what 
had once been her home. She went up to these 
people. 

“ I can no longer give you your dinners.’,’ 
she said ; “there is another master here now.” 

An old man hobbled up upon two crutches : 
“ We have come here to-day to thank you, and 
to pray God that he would repay you what you 
and your husband, and your children, and your 
forefathers upon this farm have done for the 
poor. We have heard of the injustice which 
has been done to you ; but man’s injustice is 
Heaven’s blessing. Farewell*, go in peace to 
your new home. The Lord bless you ever- 
more.” 

He hobbled back on his crutches to the group 
of mendicants who stood with hands folded, in 
prayer. The woman gave each of them some- 
thing. 

“ The Lord be with you, also,” said she. 
She went to the wagon. She said not another 
word. The children were already seated ; and 
she likewise took her seat, her husband follow- 
ing her. His brother, who rode with them was 


the last. She took the child to her bosom, cov- 
ered her face with her shawl, so that no one 
could see it. The wagon drove slowly from the 
farm. 

A servant on horseback rode in past the 
departing wagon. He handed a letter, sealed 
with a large seal, to the Commissioner von 
Eilenthal. 

The haughty man opened it eagerly, and 
read. The Justice looked inquisitively over his 
shoulder. 

“ Ah, I offer you my humble congratulations, 
Herr President. I rejoice that I am the first to 
wish you joy. I commend myself to your fur- 
ther favor.” 

The mendicants before the house raised, in 
slow and solemn tones, the hymn from the 
Psalm-book : 

O soul of mine, be not distrest 
How this vain world’s course doth tend, 

Let not those things disturb thy breast, 

Which thou canst not comprehend. 

Humble spirit, quiet, still, 

Think — “ ’Tis the Almighty’s will.” 

And doth the world upon thee frown ; 

Art thou now thy kindred’s jest; 

Or doth the oppressor tread thee down ; 

Still maintain in God thy trust. 

Rest. O spirit, calm and still, 

Think — “’Tis the Almighty’s will.” 

Is thy poor spirit sad within ; 

Naught but sorrow, woe, and grief ; 

And knowest thou only care and pain. 

Here throughout thine earthly life; 

Rest, O spirit, calm and still, 

Think — “ ’Tis the Almighty’s will.” 

God shall have pity on his own, 

When the cross hath made them strong 
He to that rest shall lead them on, 

Which they have awaited long. 

Rest, O spirit, calm and still, 

Think— “ ’Tis the Almighty’s will.” 

The sun shines forth when storms are past, 

Joy followeth in Sorrow’s train, 

Anguish turns to peace at last, 

And heavenly bliss replaces pain. 

Rest, O spirit, calm and still, 

Think — “ ’Tis the Almighty’s will.” 


CHAPTER III. 

LIFE AT COURT. 

The Court had been spending some days in 
the charming retreat in the country. Here it 
was customary to pass a considerable time 
every spring. 

It was early in the morning. 

His Royal Highness the sovereign lived a very 
regular life. He retired to r* 3 '. :h<‘ n>. .1 . ne 

clock struck ten ; at five in the uiurmug tie ai use, 
and for years he had been accustomed to this 
regularity ; and now in his old age it had be- 
come absolutely essential to him. All who be- 
longed to his immediate suite, or who were 
in close attendance upon his person, were obliged 
to conform to this mode of life. The remainder 
of the Court, did not trouble themselves much 
about it ; and. in fact, did not trouble themselves 
much about his Royal Highness at all, especial- 
ly when his grandson, the Crown Prince, was 
there. His only son was dead long ago ; and 
so also was his consort. 


ANNA HAMMER. 


‘J4 


Soon after arising, the old lord took a simple 
breakfast, which was soon dispatched. Then, 
while they were at the country residence, he 
used to go out walking for an hour in the park, 
which lay immediately adjacent to the castle. 
This was the hour when he gave audience to 
those who had petitions to present ; for he had 
the praiseworthy custom of listening to any one 
of his subjects — though only when they were 
introduced into his presence. 

It was not yet five o’clock in the morning. 
In the elegant ante-chamber before the cabinet 
of the sovereign, an old man was sitting alone, 
in a large, comfortable arm-chair. Herwas very 
carefully dressed, in a black dress-coat, black 
silk knee-breeches, white silk hose, shoes with 
little silver-buckles, and a white cravat. Three 
orders ornamented his breast. The old man sat 
with his slender little body negligently leaning ; 
one arm being upon a marble-table, near which 
his chair was placed, the other rested upon the 
arm of the chair ; his cunning face rested upon 
his hand. 

In the apartment it was as still as death. It 
seemed as though all in the castle, with the 
exception of the old man in the arm-chair, were 
dead, and he was keeping watch over the 
corpses. 

A gentle knock was heard upon the outer 
door. The old man whispered as quiet a 
“ Come in.” The door opened slowly, care- 
fully, almost inaudibly ; and a lackey, in full 
livery, entered. Treading almost on tiptoe, he 
came up to the old man. 

“The woman is there again,” he whispered. 

“ Not to-day !” said the old man, in a discon- 
tented tone, but yet in a whisper. 

“ She won’t be put off any longer.” 

“ Not to-day !” 

“ I would not send her away again.” 

“ Not to-day, I say.” 

“ She humbly begs you, Herr Treefrog.” 

“ Insufferable !” 

“ And you have such a kind, generous heart.” 

“ Eh, what’s that ?” 

“ The whole country knows it, and know T s 
you—” 

“ Hum — hum — ” 

“ Do take pity on the poor woman.” 

“ Let her come in. I will ask her about it. 
But she mustn’t make any noise.” 

The lackey went out. In a short time a 
woman of the humbler classes entered. She 
was poorly but cleanly clad. Her w T hole ap- 
pearance bespoke famine and distress. 

“ What do you wish ? — but speak low.” 

“ Ah, Herr Chamberlain — ” 

“ My name’s Treefrog.” 

In his youth the monarch, w’ho had been fond 
of a jest., might have even been styled genial. 
Among the evidences of this geniality, one was, 
that he selected for his suite only those who 
bore odd names. The old Chamberlain w T as a 
remnant of those genial humors. He never 
liked to be addressed as Chamberlain ; perhaps 
he thought the title did not comport with the 


orders w r hich had been conferred on him by his 
master and by a couple of insignificant reigning 
princes. 

“ Dear Herr Treefrog, I have already been 
waiting for three days. I am starving, and my 
poor children at home are starving.” 

“What do you w r ant of his Royal Highness?” 

“ Mercy for my husband.” 

“ And what’s the matter w’ith your hus- 
band ?” 

“ Ah, dear Herr Treefrog, we are so poor. 
A year and a half ago my husband fell sick ; 
I had lain sick a whole year. Our little busi- 
ness w T as all up. One don’t find kind people in 
a large city. Those who would do something 
for the poor, haven’t any thing themselves. We 
were in great distress. To be sure, we had 
water to drink, but we hadn’t any thing in the 
world to eat. We had been starving for three 
days. Then my poor husband w r as led aw T ay 
by distress and the Evil One. He took a basket 
of potatoes from the cellar of a rich and hard- 
hearted man. We could then keep alive for a 
w T eek and a half.” 

“ So, a thief!” 

“ It w r as found out. He was taken up. His 
confession, his prayers, our terrible sufferings, 
the misery of my poor starving children, helped 
him not at all. They sentenced him to hard 
labor in the House of Correction.” 

“And now you wish to have him par- 
doned ?” 

“Ah, do assist me, dear Herr Treefrog. If 
I could only speak to his Highness, and lay 
before him our hard case.” 

“ That’s out of the question. You must go 
to the Minister of Justice.” 

“ We have done that already. He has put 
us off.” 

“ Then you must pray to God. His High- 
ness suffers justice to take its course.” 

“So they all say. All say, ‘Justice must 
take its course,’ when a poor man is concerned. 
Nobody thinks on the misery of a poor man. 
His Highness won’t think so. He is pious and 
God-fearing, and the dear God is the father of 
the poor also.” 

“ I tell you, woman, his Highness doesn’t in- 
terfere with affairs of justice. They belong to 
the Minister of Justice. I can’t admit you ; it 
would do you no good.” 

The outer door opened again, almost inau- 
dibly. A tall stout man in a court-dress, with 
many orders upon his breast, walked in on 
tiptoe. 

“ Is his Highness up?” 

The Chamberlain, shaking his head negative- 
ly, arose from the chair, bowed to the new T - 
comer, and walked carelessly to a sofa. The 
stout gentleman came up to him, and said : 

“ Thank you, thank you, old Treefrog. TU 
find myself a seat.” 

He pushed the chair a little forward, and 
seated himself in it. The Chamberlain went to 
the door, opened it. and then turned to the wo- 
man, who was still standing there, weeping. 


LIFE AT COURT. 


25 


“ There, go !” said he, shortly and impe- 
riously. 

The woman obeyed. With heavier heart 
never went one from royal ante-chamber. The 
Chamberlain laid himself quietly back in his 
arm-chair again. 

“ What does the woman want ?” asked the 
gentleman. 

“ Pardon for a thief, her husband.” 

“ Pooh ! those low people grow impudent. 
Fine weather out-doors, my dear Treefrog. I 
hope his Highness will get up in a good humor.” 

“ God grant it ! He’s been very peevish for 
some time.” 

“ It’s age, my old friend.” 

“ And it’s youth, too.” 

“ Youth !” 

“ His Highness, the young Crown Prince,” 
replied the Chamberlain, in a malicious tone. 

“ Oh, yes; youth usually troubles age, more 
than age does youth. That’s the way of the 
world and the stout gentleman laughed. 

“ A topsy-turvy world, your Grace. Youth 
wants bustle; age wants quiet.” 

“Very true, mine ancient philosopher.” 

“You may find his Highness very complaisant 
to-day, Herr Prince.” 

“ How so, my honored patron ?” said the 
Prince, somewhat touched. 

“ I heard something like it.” 

“ Has the old fellow been blabbing again ?” 

“ He hasn’t spoken a word since the Crown 
Prince has been here again.” 

The Prince was disturbed. He arose, and 
walked up and down the chamber. Though he 
walked very lightly, the Chamberlain said to 
him maliciously : 

“ For God’s sake, your Grace, slowly ; don’t 
disturb his Highness’s precious slumber.” 

“ You are right, old sinner. How do you 
know what I want of his Highness?” 

“ I ?” 

“ You ! Why do you suppose I wish to find 
him complaisant to-day ?” 

“ I suspected so.” 

“ Old fellow, I don’t think we two need have 
any more secrets from each other.” 

“ Really, I only suspect. You must acknowl- 
edge that the matter is very simple and natural. 
You wish a regiment for your nephew. His 
Highness has promised it to the senior Colonel. 
The Colonel is a worthy, brave soldier, and has 
served his country faithfully for thirty years. He 
is the pride of the army. He has a large fam- 
ily. Your nephew is a young man.” 

“ Without any merit at all,” interrupted the 
Prince ; “ yet he has gone at once, like a pill, 
right through every grade in the army ; has 
mounted — by his family only — and — what have 
you got to say more?” 

“ That the regiment is to be disposed of till 
to-morrow morning.” 

“ Ri<rht, my old friend. You are as honor- 
able as you are cunning.” 

“ Well !” 

“ Why, you’ll stand by me.” 


“ Well ! That would be a great honor. But 
what need have you of my assistance ? The 
rich, powerful Prince Brodi ; the omnipotent 
favorite of the reigning monarch, who’s as much 
at home in the cabinet of his master as in his 
own house ?” 

“ Listen to me. Each of us knows when he 
stands in need of the other. You may want my 
support some time.” 

“ Perfectly right, your Grace. But why 
didn’t you speak to me before about the mat- 
ter ?” 

“ My brave old friend !” cried the Prince, 
pressing the hand of the Chamberlain. 

A silver bell tinkled, but only a single stroke. 
The Chamberlain was at a single step in th# 
chamber from which the sound came. 

“ The old scoundrel 1” murmured Prince 
Brodi after him. 

In about ten minutes the Chamberlain came 
back. The pair continued their conversation 
in a whisper. 

“ All right,” said the Chamberlain. “ His 
Highness has rested excellently, and has got up 
in a very gracious humor. It’s all right about 
the regiment. It will go. But one good turn 
deserves another.” 

“ Well.” 

“That little garden with the summer-house, 
behind the park — ” 

“You would like that?” 

“ The old Gentleman is not more close-fisted 
toward any body than toward me ; especially 
for the last two years. H^ counts up to me, on 
the most trifling occasions, what the Crown 
Prince costs him.” 

“ You would like to have the garden ?” 

“ Not for myself; but for my poor sick daugh- 
ter-in-law. It would strengthen her to reside 
there in summer.” 

“ One good turn deserves another, my old 
friend.” 

“ I thank your Grace most humbly.” 

“ But, any way, the Crown Prince keeps a 
most scandalous establishment.” 

“ The Horberg is there again.” 

“The rebel’s wife?” 

“ How can his Highness endure her?” 

“ No representations or expostulations do any 
good. It is the misfortune of grandfathers that, 
having been too severe with their sons, the 
grandsons make them pay for it.” 

“ It is unfortunate that the young lord ha? 
such a terrible influence over his Highness.” 

“I am sorry for the poor Princess.” 

“ Which one ?” 

“I mean the Princess Royal, his consort 



“Well! what?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“ You rogue, you mean to — ” 

“ Hold my tongue.” 

“ And nothing else ?” 

“ How does your Grace like the rich Amer- 
ican ?” 

“ That Mr. Bushby ?” 


26 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“ Keep your eye on him.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ He is a saucy fellow, with an insolent dis- 
position.” 

The bell in the cabinet tinkled again. The 
Chamberlain hastened in ; but returned in a 
moment. 

“His Highness orders to promenade,” cried 
he, in a loud voice. 

Prince Brodi, the daily attendant of the mon- 
arch in his morning walk, went into the cabinet. 

“The old villain!” muttered the Chamberlain 
behind him as he entered. 


The park, which lay behind the castle, and 
in which the monarch was now taking his walk 
with Prince Brodi, spread out into a wide ex- 
tent. Parterres, fish-ponds, elevations planted 
with grapes, woods, thick hedges of box, alter- 
nated, with pleasant intermixture, apparently 
wild, and yet tastefully ordered. The whole 
was surrounded by a high wall, in which were 
two or three small gates. Immediately beyond 
the wall was a thick wood, crossed in different 
directions by a number of highways. 

Upon one of these highways an elegant trav- 
eling carriage drove slowly along, drawn by 
two very stout but swift bay horses. A man 
wearing a beard, with a Jewish cast of features, 
almost hidden by a huge coachman’s coat, sat 
upon the box. The carriage itself was closed, 
*o that no one could see into it. It stopped at 
the edge of the wood. The door opened, and a 
little man, also of Jewish aspect, very richly 
dressed, got out, leaving the door open. 

“ Tui*n ’bout, Abraham,” said he, in a Jewish 
jargon to the driver. 

The driver turned, so that the coach and 
horses were again directed toward the quarter 
whence they had come. 

“ Shtop.” 

The carriage halted. The little man walked 
about it. He looked narrowly about it on all 
sides, as though he wished to assure himself 
that there was nothing lacking or broken. With 
like care he inspected the harness, and the build 
of the stout horses. 

“ Look sharp, Abraham, when I come back.” 

“Don’t you be afraid, Moses.” 

“ The inshtant I get up, do you drive off; but 
not shooner, do you hear, not shooner.” 

“What for would I shooner?” replied the 
driver, sharply, in the same jargon. 

“ Not till I am quite safe in the carriage, till 
you see, till you hear that I’ve shut to the door. 
You musht hear it. You musht look out with 
your ears, for you mushtn’t take your eyes off 
from the horses.” 

“ Don’t you be afraid, you fool.” 

“ And one time more. Don’t you get down 
from the box ; leave the door open, too, so that 
I can jump in as shoon as I come back.” 

The driver made no further reply. 

“Oh, one time more. Dear Abraham, will 
the horses hold out — nine leagues — without rest- 
ing ? Won’t the carriage get. broken too?” 


“ Be off, you stupid blockhead, and leave me 
to look out for the horses and carriage.” 

The little man looked at his watch. 

“ Just five. It’s exactly the time. Just one 
time more — look out, dear Abraham, I beg 
you.” 

He hastened away, at a sort of sneaking run, 
or, if the reader prefers, a running sneak, to a 
little gate in the park wall, close by the road. 
He looked carefully about him on all sides. He 
could perceive nobody. He drew out a key, 
and hastily unlocked the door with it. He 
opened it gently, only wide enough for him to 
slip through. He was instantly in the park, 
closing the door behind him. 

But although he thought himself unobserved, 
there was a person there, who had followed all 
his movements with a watchful eye. 

At the moment when the coachman was turn- 
ing the carriage around, at a little distance from 
the spot, a man emerged from the thicket of the 
wood. He was a very striking figure. Far ex- 
ceeding the usual height of men, he was extreme- 
ly meagre. Large bones, broad shoulders, a mus- 
cular arm, and a large sinewy hand, denoted un- 
usual vigor. A singular costume suited well this 
striking figure. He wore a short brown jacket, of 
the color and coarse material of the cowls of the 
mendicant monks ; short brown leather breeches; 
gray linen gaiters, reaching up to the breeches; 
and large stout shoes. His head was covered 
with an old battered gray hat, the broad brim 
of which no longer denoted whether it had for- 
merly been three-cornered or round. A wallet 
hung across his shoulders from which peeped an 
old brown or almost black fiddle. It was a dif- 
ficult matter to decide upon the age of the man. 
His thick coarse hair was of that kind of mouse- 
color, which does not usually change even in the 
extremest old age. His countenance was ter- 
ribly furrowed ; but though the furrows were 
deep, the outlines were firm, and rigid as iron. 
The eyes wore keen. However closely one 
might examine the personage, he would yet re- 
main doubtful whether he had before him a man 
of fifty, sixty, or seventy years. 

This man emerging from the thicket of the 
wood was in the act of leaping across the ditch 
bordering the road, when he perceived the car- 
riage and the two Jews not far from him. As- 
suring himself by a rapid glance that he was 
unobserved, he drew hastily back into the thicket. 
Hidden by the close foliage, he watched with the 
deepest attention the movements of the men, who 
were at too great a distance for him to be able 
to distinguish their words. When one of these 
men had disappeared in the park, he crept slowly 
back, and having described a semicircle, so as 
not to be observed, he came out from the wood 
at a point not far from the park, and where he 
could not be observed by the coachman in the 
road. Here he was close by the little door 
through which one of the men had entered the 
park. Having reflected for a moment, he crept 
up to the door, and attempted to open it. It 
was locked. He turned back, skirting the wall 


LIFE AT COURT. 


27 


rapidly, but so noiselessly that the keenest ear 
close by on the other side would never have 
heard him. He paused at a spot where a close 
thicket was visible on the other side of the wall. 
The bough of a tree reached over and hung down 
so low that the tall man could easily reach it 
with his hand. He examined the bough closely, 
its length and strength ; then he examined the 
wall, its height, and separate, and somewhat 
prominent stones. Suddenly he seized the bough 
with both hands, and at the same moment placed 
his foot against the wall, giving his body a pow r - 
erful swing. Before a spectator could have 
divined the purpose of his movements, he was 
seated in the tree on the other side of the wall. 
It was as though a monstrous brown cat had 
made a spring. In a moment after, he was 
down ; and nothing but a low crackling of the 
twigs betrayed that he had let himself down. 

He stood in a dense thicket that grew close 
up to the wall. All was still around him. Only 
a few birds sang and twittered above him in the 
trees. He made his way carefully through the 
entangled branches, till he came to a narrow 
winding path. He followed this, in the direction 
toward the gate through which the man with 
the Jewish countenance had gone. 

He kept close by the wall. After a while he 
reached the gate, and here he found himself in a 
broad carriage road which traversed the park in 
manifold windings, apparently leading from the 
castle and then back again. Just opposite the 
door was an open plot. Broad alleys stretched 
away to the right, beyond which the beams of 
the morning sun were mirrored in the peaceful 
waters of a small lake. To the left the thicket 
from which he had emerged extended itself still 
further. Not a man or any other living being 
was to be seen ; nothing was heard except the 
birds overhead. 

For a moment he stood uncertain in which 
direction to turn ; at last he decided in favor of 
the thicket. With cat-like activity and watch- 
fulness he crept along through it toward an ele- 
vated spot which he had remarked. He reached 
it. It was a part of the thicket in which he was. 
Upon its summit stood, in a regular triangle, 
three tall slender firs. Behind these, the thicket 
grew less dense, and he was on the point of 
stepping out into the open space, when he heard 
a crackling not far from him, as though some- 
body was walking near. He stood still, and 
held his breath, looking about on every side, but 
he was so far in the thicket that he could dis- 
cover nothing. He could perceive only the 
boughs and the leaves, and towering above him, 
at no great distance, the three tall firs, among 
w'hose branches rustled the morning breeze. 

This would have been a critical situation for 
almost any one else. There was no question 
that somebody was close at hand, for the ear, 
now again become attentive, could plainly dis- 
tinguish the footsteps of a man not far off. The 
tall man with the brown jacket and black fiddle 
seemed, however, to be accustomed to such situa- 
tions. Without, taking much time for reflection. 


he made a circuit toward the comer. He need- 
ed in fact to make no very extended circuit. It 
seemed as though the boughs bent away before 
him of their own accord. The tread of his large 
foot was so light that the black moss seemed 
scarcely to be moved under it. Any one who 
was awaiting him with the most anxious solici- 
tude would scarcely have heard his approach. 
In a few minutes he found himself within a few 
paces of the person approaching. It was the 
man with the Jewish countenance. 

The little man was walking up and down, now 
slowly, now more quickly, but alw r ays lightly and 
carefully. He was in a narrow footpath which 
ran through the thicket across the crown of th8 
height, and under the three firs. He seemed to 
be waiting here for somebody, for he looked in- 
cessantly around on both sides of the path. He 
seemed, from the irregularity of his pace, to have 
grown somewhat impatient. 

He remained standing for a short time under 
the three firs. Here his eye not only com- 
manded a further extent of the path, but also 
looked over a portion of the thicket into the park. 
Some portions of this presented very picturesque 
grouping. The windings of the carriage road, 
covered with white gravel ; the alleys, crossing 
each other in every direction, were of poplar, 
elms, and chestnuts with their red blossoms ; two 
considerable bodies of water were bordered with 
tall reeds, with elegant swan-houses in the cen- 
tre ; there were grottoes, temples, a ruin, lofty 
pyramids of yew, and far in the background 
rose the turrets of the castle ; the whole sur- 
rounded by a high, dark w T ood. 

The eyes of the little man perceived nothing 
of all this. He appeared to be there only for a 
single object — the person for whom he was wait- 
ing. His impatience increased, and soon began 
to find vent in single words, uttered in a low tone. 

“ Five minutes beyond the time already,” said 
he, looking at his watch. “Am I the man 
whom he dares to keep waiting. He is not to 
be trusted. But I have him. Yes, I have him 
fast.” 

He commenced walking up and down again, 
then once more stood still. 

“ A beautiful shtroke of business. Good profit. 
A made man. Where can he be shtopping? 
But what he has cost me already !” 

He went on, and the long man in the brown 
jacket seized the moment, and crept behind one 
of the fir-trees. The other stood still under that 
very tree. 

“ He is imprudent,” he continued soliloquizing, 
“ but am I not so too ? Have I not been so ? I 
am lost if he betrays me. But I have him, yes, 
I have him.” 

“ Mosey !” said at that moment the deep voice 
of the man in the brown jacket, right at his ear, 
while a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. 
He fell to the ground, as if he had been all at 
once completely crushed. As he fell, his eye 
rested upon the tall man. 

“ Geigen — ” he exclaimed, astounded, but 
did not complete the w r ord. 


28 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“ Speak out the whole word,” said the tall 
man with a quiet mocking laugh. 

The little man, however, had recovered him- 
self as speedily as he had been terrified. He 
had already risen up again, brushed his clothes, 
and said, yet in a half doubtful tone : 

“ How the gentleman frightened me!” 

“ Speak out the word, Mosey, the whole word.” 

“ What should I shpeak out ? what word ? 
what does the gentleman want?” 

“Speak out the word, Mosey — Geigenfritz." 

“ What does the gentleman want? What is 
that word to me ?” 

“ Old rogue ! Old Moses Amschel, what is 
the word to you ? What is Geigenfritz to you ! 
Your old friend !” 

“I know no Geigenfritz. I know no Moses 
Amschel. The gentleman is mishtaken. And 
now be off with you ! Do you hear ?” 

He had now become quite bold and saucy. 
The long man looked at him with a laugh of 
mocking sympathy. 

“ Mosey, shall I reckon up for you in how 
many houses of correction and workhouses I 
have seen you? You have now become a rich 
and respectable man. I have heard all about it. 
You do a great banking business. Great lords 
dine wfilh you, and princes’ names stand in your 
ledger. I believe you are a baron. You live 
in the midst of luxury, but yet you remain still 
just Moses Amschel, my old comrade. I knew 
you at once, and that scoundrel of a brother of 
yours, who is out there on the road with the 
carriage and horses.” 

The little man had now grown alarmed. 
His sudden boldness as suddenly forsook him. 
He tried to collect himself, but his voice was 
again quavering, as he forced out the words : 

“ The gentleman is mishtaken. Leave me. 
I’ve businesh here. I’ll have you arrested.” 

The other laughed. “I have no doubt that 
you have business here. But as to having me 
arrested — Your business will hardly bear day- 
light ; and something particular might come of 
my arrest.” 

It seemed as though some truth was couched 
in these words, which so suddenly enlightened 
the little man, that the effect upon him was 
most crushing. For a moment he stood irreso- 
lute, looking anxiously about on all sides. He 
then looked inquiringly into the eyes of the 
brown man, while his right hand was clutched 
in his bosom, as though he wished to draw 
something out. He withdrew his hand, letting 
his arm fall by his side. His eyes fell too, and 
he said, in a low voice : 

“ Well, then, Geigenfritz ! leave me just now. 
Wait out by the carriage with my brother. I’ll 
be back shoon. Then we’ll shpeak further.” 

“ No, no, old sinner. You said you had busi- 
ness here. We have before now done business 
together.” 

“But there’s nothing for you to-day.” 

“ My dear brother, you haven’t to decide 
about that.” 

“ Don’t shpoil my businesh, Geigenfritz.” 


“And what’s your business about to-day?” 

“ You shall know by-and-by.” 

“ So I intend, forthwith.” 

“ Impossible !” 

“ All 1 have to do is to stay.” 

Moses Amschel could see that it was so 
He became very anxious. 

“ I shwear to you, you’ll shpoil my businesh 
if you don’t go. Nothing can be done about it 
in your presence ; nothing at all.” 

“ We’ll see about that.” 

The firm determination of Geigenfritz to re- 
main seemed invincible. Moses Amschel walked 
up and down wringing his hands, and gazing 
with all the force of his eyes across the thicket 
into the park. At once he stood stock-still in 
the utmost terror. The other followed the 
glance of his eye. A man came running at the 
top of his speed along the alley and up the 
ascent where they were both standing. 

“Go, for God’s sake, leave me,” begged 
Moses Amschel. 

“ You scoundrel ! That’s the Crown Prince 
coming there — what have you to do with him?” 

“ Go, I entreat you, go !” 

“ Not a step till I know what you have to do 
with him.” 

“ By-and-by. I can’t get away from you. 
Go.” 

“Not a step.” 

“ I have businesh with him.” 

“ What kind of business ?” 

“ Businesh, businesh. You shall see by-and- 
by.” 

“What kind of business?” 

“Well then, businesh about jewels. But go 
now ! Away, away !” 

“ You are right. You can’t escape me.” 

Geigenfritz disappeared in the thicket. Moses 
Amschel had just time to breathe when the per- 
son who had been running stood before him. It 
was a young man of a slender and elegant form, 
with a handsome but extremely dissipated coun- 
tenance. His rich dress was in disorder. 

“Who w r as here, Jew?” 

“ Not a man — who should be with me ? Why 
should I bring any body with me?” 

“ I heard voices. Who was with you ?” 

“No one, your Highnesh.” 

“Do not you call my name, Jew, and speak 
the truth.” 

“ May God shtrike me dead, if any one w T as 
with me ?” 

The young man looked carefully about on all 
sides. He then drew from his breast a red silk 
handkerchief, in which something was wrapped 
up, and gave it to the other. 

“Here, Jew; now be off!” 

Moses Amschel was unrolling the handker- 
chief, in order to look at the contents. 

“ Villain — I won’t cheat you. In thre« 
months!” 

He was about to go, but turned back again. 

“ But to America, to New York ! Not to 
London ! Do you hear?” 

“ I know T .” 


LIFE AT COURT. 


29 


The other hastened back at full speed, as he 
had come. Moses Amschel unrolled the cloth, 
threw a glance into it, rolled it carefully up 
again, and stole cautiously to the door which 
had admitted him into the park. He opened it 
hastily, and as hastily closed it behind him. 
But as he was hurrying up to his carriage, he 
found himself suddenly detained by Geigenfritz, 
who sprang up from a ditch close by his side. 

“ What for do you frighten me ? I am not 
going to run away from you.” 

“ Because you can’t. Now, comrade, share 
— halves !” 

u Are you mad !’’ 

“ Not I, but you are, if you imagine you are 
not in my power here.” 

Moses Amschel looked about him, but he 
could see only the powerful figure of the tall 
man, who held him so firmly that he could 
scarcely stir. The carriage was indeed stand- 
ing at a short distance ; but the horses were as 
skittish as they were spirited, and the driver 
could not leave them. 

“ Show it,” ordered Geigenfritz. 

Resistance was impossible. He drew forth 
the cloth, hesitatingly : still more hesitatingly 
he unrolled it. A diamond ornament gleamed 
forth. The eyes of the little man sparkled 
keenly, in spite of his affright. 

“ Rogue ! who stole that?” 

“ Shtole! you talk nonsensh !” 

“ What is it worth ?” 

“ What should it be worth? a couple of hun- 
dred dollars.” 

“ Do you think I am a child ?” 

“ Well, then, a couple of thousands.” 

“That’s worth more than a million !” 

“ You scare me !” 

“ But it’s all the same — halves !” 

“ I must sell it first. You shall have your 
fchare of the prosheeds.” 

“ Of the proceeds ! You don’t trick me. 
We’ll share it on the spot.” 

“ How can that be done ?” 

“ Very easily. I’ll break the diadem into 
two halves. You shall have one, and I the 
other. Give it here.” 

Moses Amschel was terribly alarmed. He 
held the ornament nervously with both hands — 
little good it did him. The broad hand of the 
tall man loosed his hold, finger by finger, as 
though in sport. But the Jew still held on to 
the ornament, with the feeble remnant of his 
strength. Suddenly abroad knife gleamed over 
the shoulder of Geigenfritz, and cut him quickly 
and deeply across the whole hand with which 
he held the diadem. Involuntarily he loosed his 
hold of that and of the little man. Moses Am- 
schel and the coachman Abraham — who had be- 
held the situation of his brother from the box, 
had stolen up at the right moment and given the 
lucky cut — sprang away with a laugh, one into 
the carriage, the other upon the box, and drove 
off at full gallop. 


ing had promised. The hour of ten iiad already 
been struck by the castle clock. The military 
and civil reports of generals, ministers, and cab- 
inet councils were finished. At this period of 
the day, when the sovereign had been awake for 
five hours, the court proper, the Princesses, the 
Crown Prince, when he was present, and all that 
pertained to their retinue, were wont to emerge 
from their slumbers, and after a hasty morning 
toilet, to take their breakfast together, in fine 
weather, in the park or on the castle terrace. 
Of the generals, ministers, and cabinet council- 
ors, some were in the habit of making their 
appearance here, to pay their respects, and to 
learn and tell the news. The sovereign himself 
was sometimes present, when he was in good 
humor. 

Prince Brodi, Home Minister, and Herr Von 
Altenhof, Minister for Foreign Affairs, had be- 
taken themselves to the terrace as soon as their 
reports were concluded. They were the first 
and only persons present. The breakfast-table 
was already laid out. The court was waited 
for. They w’ondered that, the time being past, 
no one made his appearance. The diplomatist 
shook his wise head significantly, but without 
saying a word. The Prince, less reticent, spoke 
out his thoughts. 

“ All owing to the return of the Crow T n Prince, 
or rather, to his journey.” 

“ How am I to understand you, Prince ?” 

“We live more soberly when the Prince is 
not here : then every thing goes on smoothly. 
Every hour, every minute has what belongs to 
it. The day is day, and the night is night. But 
since the return of the Prince, day is turned into 
night, and night not indeed exactly into day, but 
into the ruin of the day. And w’hence does his 
Highness bring these customs ? From his royal 
travels !” 

“ You are bitter !” 

“Am I wrong ? There’s w 7 here it comes 
from.” 

“ I can not affirm that you are — on the con- 
trary I agree with you, in a measure. Our court 
is a pattern of exemplary, regular habits. The 
like is perhaps presented in no other court. The 
Prince travels much, and so I agree with you 
that his travels contribute to the irregularities 
which have crept into our life at court, since his 
return. I only wonder at the great kindness and 
complaisance w T ith w’hich our royal master adapts 
himself to the change, even at the sacrifice of a 
portion of his usual habits.” 

“ I do not w’onder at it. The old gentleman 
comprehends himself and his time. Every body 
should do that.” 

“ In my opinion a sovereign prince might have 
the privilege of fashioning and guiding his own 
time.” 

“ We are getting into our old dispute.” 

“I see no connection.” 

“ It is a new variation of the question of the 
absolute right of princes, and the rights of the 
people.” 

“ I alluded very remotely to that, and touch- 


The day was as pleasant as the early morn- 


30 


ANNA HAMMER. 


•should submit these arrangements 


ing the question in hand, you must acknowledge 
that I am right in our ancient contest. You will 
acknowledge that the sovereign should stand in 
a position to decide upon his own mode of life, 
and that it would be a complete reversal of all 
relations if he 

to his children and subjects.” 

“ I don’t admit that at all. Should I assent 
to that, however, it would make nothing as to 
our old contest.” 

“ I am curious to hear why.” 

“ My friend, we are both old. We pertain no 
longer to the new world. Therefore it is hard 
for us to yield to the rights of this new young 
world : to forget that youth was once ours, and 
we its. The world advances always and unceas- 
ingly : the world as well as time. The world 
is time. It is vain to wish to hold it back. It 
is just as idle to wish to recall the past. As you 
can not make the future past, just so little — I 
might rather say, still less — can you make the 
past future, or even present. This is the whole 
simple mystery of our life, and of our perplexi- 
ties and our contests.” 

“I do not understand you.” 

“Just because you are old. Because you 
wish to make the past the future or the present. 
Because you are willing to recognize only age, 
which is the past, and not youth, which belongs 
to the present and the future. My friend, have not 
we had the prerogative of our youth ; and did we 
not carry it through — carry it through, though by 
a hard struggle? Was not the victory ours?” 

“ And so, all this turmoil of the Crown Prince 
— this night-revelry, this playing and drinking 
and cursing, you would — ” 

He stopped short, for in his eagerness not to 
allow his opponent to gain the victory, he had 
forgotten himself. Correcting himself, he went 
on : “ And so you would call this life of the 
Crown Prince, which you yourself condemn, a 
justifiable one ?” 

“ I am far enough from that. I have spoken 
only of the rights of youth, not of the rights of 
the excesses of youth. Meanwhile, this is only 
one side of the question. Perhaps a more im- 
portant. and striking one is the other. You gen- 
tlemen absolutists — ” 

“ Don’t you rather belong to them ?” laughed 
the diplomatist. 

The Prince joined in the laugh, in a fashion 
of his own. “ It is a great error of the world,” 
said he, “ that they seldom apprehend rightly, 
and on the right occasions, the distinction be- 
tween theory and practice. So you gentlemen 
absolutists, when you talk of princes and subjects, 
proceed simply and solely from the relation of a 
master to his family, or a father to his children. 
These are illustrations, not ideas, and very gray 
and misty illustrations have they become, having 
color and life no longer.” 

“ Then they once had life and color !” inter- 
rupted the other ; “ these illustrations once were 
applicable to the relations of prince and people. 
Why is it that they have just now lost their ap- 
plicability ?” 


“ True indeed : They once had life, color, 
and applicability ; for a wonderfully long time ; 
but as they have now already grown misty, so, 
believe me, the time is not very far distant when 
we shall see nothing more in them than the bare 
white plaster wall upon which those beautiful 
frescoes were once painted. And why is it that 
these illustrations have lost their applicability, 
and must soon become obsolete ? — Ask the 
world’s history. The world’s history will per- 
haps tell you also why they could have so long 
existed and maintained their place ; it will per- 
haps also inform you wherefore its creative, im- 
pelling, moving spirit has not, now for a long 
time, fructified and inspired the life of the peo- 
ple.” 

“ What says the monarch to such principles, 
Prince ?” 

“ You know that I never speak to him about 
them. — I am only a theorizer,” he added, in an 
explanatory tone. 

“ And the Minister of Police ?” asked the 
Foreign Minister, with a laugh. 

The Prince maintained his serious aspect. 
“It is just your misfortune,” he rejoined, “that 
you think you can keep under the young vigor- 
ous spirit of the times, by arrest and imprison- 
ment, by chains and fetters, by shooting and 
beheading. Your opponents compare you to a 
stupid surgeon, who cuts off the arm of a patient 
when his finger aches, but the comparison is not 
a just one ; it is too mild. You are like a fool- 
ish boy who voluntarily hurts his finger against 
a wall, and then gets into a passion against the 
poor finger, the hand, and arm, and has the 
whole chopped off. But you are raging against 
nobody but your own selves, galling nobody but 
yourselves, and just preparing your own over- 
throw, which can not be far off.” 

“ The old vaticination again.” 

“ The truth is always old, and yet young ever- 
more. Therefore it alone is always in the right, 
and the punishment follows close at hand, or 
rather is present at once, when that right is not 
recognized.” 

“ Prince — I wish to ask a serious question.” 

“Well, what?” 

“ Are you really in earnest in these speeches? 
I have heard them often and often from your 
mouth, and yet you are one of the most zealous 
among all of us, servants of princely absolutism.” 

“ I might simply repeat to you the distinction 
between theory and practice. But why should 
I not be so? I like to deal in distinctions, or. 
if you prefer, in contrarieties.” 

“ You evade the question. Let me put it 
from another side. I will acknowledge that 
your ideas could not give another form to the 
government of the present sovereign regnant. 
To use your own phrase, ‘ the rights of youth’ 
could iiot there gain recognition. But the mon- 
arch is old. Why do you not endeavor to pave 
the way for the reign that is to follow ? Your 
duty to the dynasty is not surely limited to th® 
grandfather. You speak so warmly yourself in 
favor of youth.” 


LIFE AT COURT. 


31 


“ I do not know whether the Crown Prince 
be young or not.” 

“ 1 do not understand you.” 

u Here comes the Seneschal von Hassenberg. 
Ask him,” rejoined the Prince, with a sneer. 

The Minister for Foreign Affairs laughed 
also, but more diplomatically. The Seneschal 
was a large, well-built gentleman, with a coun- 
tenance which had a perpetual air of ceremony. 

*‘What are you laughing at, gentlemen?” 
he asked, while still at some distance. 

£ ‘ I was to ask you whether the Crown Prince 
belongs to the young people, or not?” 

“ You’re lucky that you need ask about that. 
My poor body makes demonstration of that, day 
by day, or rather, night by night. I am undone 
if this goes on a week longer. I fall away per- 
ceptibly. And then the pecuniary damage. 
Would you believe it, that I have been obliged 
to order new clothing throughout, because I 
have grown so thin that my old suits won’t fit 
any longer?” 

“ Pad out, pad out, my friend.” 

“I don’t understand your Serene Highness.” 

“ Why don’t you have the old suits padded 
out ?” 

“ I did think about that. But, think of the 
young wags about court, should such a thing 
get wind — his Highness the Crown Prince at 
the head of them.” 

“ See there, Altenhoff, our friend Hassenberg 
is of my opinion. He is afraid of the young 
wags — not of the old people.” 

“ What opinion, your Serene Highness?” 

“ That we must have a revolution,” answered 
the Prince, raising his voice, intentionally. 

The Seneschal sprang back in terror : “ I — 
a revolutionist ! For the sake of Heaven !” 

“ You would surely assist it.” 

“ Prince, do lay aside such dangerous jests — 
I beg you most sincerely.” 

“ Jesting aside, a revolution is a very curious 
thing. Those who think themselves furthest 
from it. are the nearest to it; and those who 
think they are keeping it back most effectually, 
they oftenest are urging it forward.” 

“ Let us speak of something else, gentlemen ; 
the Crown Prince is close behind.” 

“ You see,” said Prince Brodi, turning to the 
Minister for Foreign Affairs, “that I was right 
here, too : that Herr von Hassenberg would 
deny youth to the Crown Prince. He said that 
the Crown Prince was following close behind 
him ; and von Hassenberg, his care for his 
toilet notwithstanding, no longer makes preten- 
sions to youth.” 

“ We are used to your raillery,” said the Sen- 
eschal, more anxiously than angrily. “ But, 
seriously, let this drop. Here comes the Crown 
Prince.” 

They advanced respectfully to meet the heir- 
apparent, who now emerged from the castle- 
gate, in order to pay their respects to him. 
The Crown Prince appeared to be in high good- 
humor. 

“Ah, Papa Brodi,” cried he, gayly, taking i 


the Prince confidentially by the arm, and lead- 
ing him aside. “ I have a great and important 
petition for you to-day.” 

“ At your Highness’s service,” replied the 
Prince, in his ordinary tone, from which one 
could never be sure whether he was in earnest, 
or jesting — whether he were well or maliciously 
disposed. 

“ You must provide me with an adjutant.” 

“ Are you no longer satisfied w T ith Herr vcn 
Wangenheim ?” 

“ Oh, well enough ; but I must have a second 
adjutant.” 

“I suspect how T it is,” said the Prince, slvly 

“ Hardly.” 

“ Will your Highness wager ?” 

“ Not with you. You know every thing. 1 
believe you are deep in the black art. But let 
us hear whether you are on the right track.” 

“ Without doubt. You wish to have Princa 
Amberg recalled to court.” 

“ The devil !” 

“ Have I hit it ?” 

“But how — but how did you know, Brodi?” 

“ Nothing in the world more simple. You 
should advise the beautiful Madame von Hor- 
berg, to have more care in future, in the court 
saloons, over her gestures and pantomime.” 

“ The lady is lively.” 

“ She was quite too much so yesterday.” 

“You’ll stand by me?” 

“ Who would turn away from the beams of 
the rising sun ?” 

“ Don’t be spiteful. Now to the business.” 

They returned to the terrace. The sove- 
reign had meanwhile arrived there ; a tall, and 
yet fine figure, though somewhat bowed by age, 
with a grave though benevolent countenance. 
With him came the Princess Amelia, a tender, 
delicate creature, whose features expressed an 
unusual degree of kindness and goodness, con- 
joined with a certain grave earnestness. 

The Crown Prince hastened at once up to 
his grandfather, kissed his hand, and cheek, and 
then fell back respectfully, nodding a good- 
morning to his sister. She answered him with 
a glance full of mournful thought. The mon- 
arch was silent ;• and no one present ventured 
to accost him. Glances were interchanged from 
one to the other. 

“ Nothing new from the capital ?” inquired 
the sovereign, after a while. 

“ Nothing at all, may it please your High- 
ness,” replied the Seneschal. 

The Crown Prince seemed to have been 
waiting only for the first word. He now broke 
in eagerly : 

“ It’s just as tiresome there as here.” 

The Seneschal was astounded. The Prince 
Brodi laughed maliciously to himself. The 
Princess Amelia threw a glance, half-beseech- 
ing, half-reproachful toward her brother. Tha 
monareh looked quietly upon him. 

“My dear George,” said he, “outward wea- 
riness comes only from inner vacancy.” 

“Not always, most gracious Sire,” replied 


t 


32 


ANNA HAMMER. 


the Prince. “ The spirit may become ex- 
hausted, the heart wearied : one then needs 
lome outward excitement, and longs for that.’ 1 

“ I know it. You speak well.” 

“ I speak what I feel, and my feeling is true. 
But suffer me, your Highness, to prove my 
proposition. A great and mighty void comes 
before the noblest sentiments and passions of 
man. The young heart yearns for something, 
what it knows not. All within it has become 
void and empty. Outward impulse is wanting 
— the impulse of a heart harmonizing, feeling, 
and throbbing with his own. So arises a yearn- 
ing for love and friendship ; so arise the bonds 
of love and friendship.” 

‘‘Rascal!” murmured Prince Brodi. 

“You are a perpetual contradiction to your- 
self,” said the monarch, in a half-kindly 
tone. 

“ Reconcile the contradiction, my kindest 
grandfather,” said the young man, in an im- 
ploring tone. I stand, in sooth, alone at court. 
1 have no youthful friend. I do not deny it, I 
do oftentimes experience a sense of weariness, 
now that I no longer find Prince Amberg here.” 

“ Do not speak of him.” 

“ He has done wrong, it is true. He is 
thoughtless.” 

“ He has no piety.” 

“ He has more than many a one who makes 
more pretense to it before your Highness and 
before the world. I know him. I have grown 
up with him. He is high-spirited.” 

“ His last rude act does not manifest that.” 

“It is a heavy charge that they have again 
brought against him. But it is unjust. J went 
to the Minister of War yesterday. He is slan- 
dered, foully slandered.” 

“ The charge rests on the testimony of a 
person — a foreigner — of whom the Embassador 
gives the highest character. . He was in part 
an eyewitness of this rudeness, this violence, 
from the results of which the maltreated young 
man is now ill — perhaps hopelessly.” 

“ He was provoked by a vagabond strumpet 
and an impudent blockhead. The inquiry shows 
that — the testimony of all the officers of the 
squadron.” 

“ The accuser has offered to swear to his 
charges — he has proceeded upon the evidence 
of law-abiding citizens.” 

“ These law-abiding citizens can swear to 
no definite acts, as the proceedings before the 
Minister of War demonstrate. The affirmation 
of an unknown stranger will not, I hope, weigh 
against the word of honor of your Highness’s 
officers and nobles.” 

“ Is the matter really so ?” 

“ The Minister of War will report to your 
Highness respecting it.” 

“ The transaction is still a rude one, unwor- 
thy of an officer.” 

“ If I may be allowed a remark,” said the 
Prince Brodi, “ this singing-girl and her fine 
brother are near relations of the notorious dem- 
agogue, Vorhoff.” 


The monarch at once assumed an attitude of 
attention. Prince Brodi went on : 

“ For some time past, many suspicious per- 
sons have been wandering again about the coun- 
try, under disguises of all sorts, but belonging, 
for the most part, undoubtedly to the cultivated 
classes. The Minister of Police is already on 
the look-out.” 

“ Put me in mind of this at the audience to- 
morrow,” said the monarch. “ Remind me 
also of Prince Amberg. We will see what can 
be done.” 

He rose, beckoned to the Prince, and walked 
with him up and down the terrace. 

“In fact,” said he, “can the return of Prinee 
Amberg be for the good of the Crown Prince ? 
He is thoughtless, indeed, but a little rude.” 

“And,” added Brodie, sarcastically, “ if the 
foster-brother of the Prince is accustomed to 
take the stripes which the Prince deserves, then 
will his Highness, the Crown Prince, get rid of 
many a one.” 

“ You are right,” said the monarch ; and his 
lips curved into a smile, involuntarily; the first, 
perhaps, for a long while. After a pause, he 
resumed : 

“ I have something to tell you. I will give 
the regiment to your nephew to-morrow. Don’t 
let me hear too many expressions of gratitude 
about it. You know I don’t like that.” 

“ As your Highness pleases ; and therefor® 
not a word of my thanks.” 

“ I had thought of old Colonel Rudolph, but 
I heard something about him that did not please 
me. Treefrog says that he is lacking in true 
piety. And if a person is not pious, he can not 
be trustworthy.” 

“ Is that an insinuation against me ?” 

“No, my old friend. You are an altogether 
special instance of a true man. Old true friend- 
ship has proved you an hundred times. Of you 
I am convinced that you have a disinterested 
love for me. You have never asked any thing 
of me. The disinterested man is always true.” 

“ And, Treefrog, most gracious Sire ?” 

“Treefrog is disinterested, too.” 

“ Then grant me a petition to-day.” 

“ Speak.” 

“It is for Treefrog; but he knows nothing 
about it. I have learned from third hands that 
the air of the city does not agree with his poor 
sick daughter-in-law. She must go into the 
country in order to recover her health, and to 
preserve her poor children. She yearns toward 
her father-in-law. But here in the court is no 
place for an invalid. Behind the park lies a 
worthless little garden with a ruined summer- 
house. Treefrog would not grudge the cost of 
rebuilding it. It would improve the aspect of 
the park ; should your Highness be so gracious 
as to make it over to him, say by way of lease?” 

“ Why didn’t the old fool speak about it?” 

“ Shall I expedite the documents ?” 

“ But I reserve to myself to surprise the old 
fellow with it.” 

Eager voices here recalled the attention of 


LIFE AT COURT. 


33 


both to the company whom they had left. This 
had been increased by a number of persons — 
Madame von Bierthaler, the first lady of the bed- 
chamber, a fat old lady; by Mademoiselle von 
Ostfeld, maid of honor to the Crown Princess, 
a very lean, elderly maiden; and by a chamber- 
lain, a common sort of personage, of middle age. 
They all formed a close group, talking very 
earnestly. In the countenances of all, distur- 
bance and anxiety were very legible. The eyes 
of the court lady were red with weeping ; the 
lady of the bed-chamber glowed, as though in 
anger ; the Princess Amelia trembled violently 
in every limb. Something unusual had happen- 
ed. The monarch, followed by Prince Brodi, 
advanced toward the group, with steps more 
rapid than his wont. 

“ What’s the matter ?” said he. 

The heads of all turned with affright toward 
each other. The lady of the bed-chamber re- 
covered herself first. 

“ The diadem of the Crown Princess is gone !” 
said she. \ 

“ Stolen !” exclaimed the Crown Prince. 

The Princess Amelia, at these words, shrunk 
back in horror. 

“ The diadem?” asked the monarch, in great 
alarm. “ The heir-loom of the princesses reg- 
nant — of my sainted spouse, of my mother ?” 

“ Stolen !” repeated the Crown Prince. “ Tell 
us all about it, Mademoiselle von Ostfeld.” 

“ Tell it,” ordered the monarch ; “ but 
briefly.” 

Mademoiselle von Ostfeld advanced, and said, 
in a choking voice : “ Her Highness left the 
salon at about two o’clock last night. She wore 
the jewel in honor of the embassador to whom 
the entertaiment of yesterday was given. Her 
Highness was much fatigued, and desired to 
retire at once. I and the tire-woman, Bedeau, 
helped to disrobe her. This w r as in her dress- 
ing-room. I myself took the diadem from her 
Highness’s hair, and put it in the casket which 
stood upon the toilet-table. Usually her High- 
ness herself locks this casket, and takes it with 
her into her sleeping-room, when she is about 
to retire, where she locks it up in the case close 
by her bedside. The key to this case her High- 
ness carries about her person. Last evening 
she could not readily find it. As I have said, 
her Highness was very much fatigued last even- 
ing, and thought that the casket might stand 
in her dressing-room till morning. It was left 
there, and her Highness retired. The tire- 
woman accompanied her Highness into her bed- 
chamber, and I remained in the mean time in 
the dressing-room. We then left the apartment 
together. We left the door ajar ; the tire-wo- 
man sleeps close by it ; and my own apartment 
is very near. In the morning when 'I awoke, 
I went, the first thing, into the dressing-room 
to put every thing in order. The tire-woman 
was already busy there ; her Highness was still 
asleep. While arranging the toilet-table, I lifted 
the casket. It seemed to me unusually light. 
I opened it ; to my horror it was empty. Poor 


Bedeau was still more terrified than I w r as. We 
awoke her Highness at. once. Her affright was 
not less than ours. The jewels are missing. 
They must be stolen.” 

The monarch grew extremely pale. “ A 
thief in the castle, in the immediate vicinity of 
the Crown Princess — what villainous, impious 
impudence !” 

All, with the exception of Prince Brodi, 
seemed to have lost their senses. 

“ How many doors are there to the dressing- 
room ?” he asked. 

“ Three : one leads to her Highness’s sleep- 
ing-room ; the second to Bedeau’s bedroom ; 
the third into the corridor.” 

“ Were none of them fastened ?” 

“ Only the last.” 

“ On the inside, or on the outside?” 

“ On the inside. The key was in the lock, 
as usual, the evening before.” 

“And this morning too?” 

“This morning too; when we discovered the 
loss, w r e looked at once to the door. Nobody 
could have got into the chamber from the 
corridor.” 

“ There are two doors besides this?” 

“ The one leads to the sleeping-room of the 
Princess — ” 

“ No one could come through that either.” 

“ The other leads into Bedeau’s bedroom.” 

“ Bedeau is honest. — How many doors are 
there to her room?” 

“Two: the one I have mentioned, and one 
leading into the corridor. This was locked, as 
well as that leading from the dressing-room into 
the corridor. I passed, as usual through Bedeau’s 
apartment into the dressing-room. It was lock- 
ed. At my knock, she opened it. I heard her 
turn the key inside. She assures me that the 
key was in the lock all night.” 

“ No light upon the matter, no explanation !” 
said the Prince, thoughtfully. “ And the win- 
dows?” he went on after a while. 

“ They were all fastened.” 

“ This is a shocking affair,” said the monarch, 
who had listened with the utmost attention. 

“ We must, at all events, come nearer to the 
matter,” said the Prince. “ Will your Highness 
suffer me to inspect the place?” 

“ At once, dear Brodi. You are right.” 

They went in silence into the castle, and the 
apartments where the crime had been committed. 
The Princess Amelia remained behind. The 
situation of things was very easy to comprehend. 
The condition of the apartments was just as the 
lady-in-waiting had described it. The locks on 
the doors w T ere examined. They had not been 
tampered with. The apartments were in a side 
wing of the building, upon the somewhat elevated 
ground-floor. The windows looked upon the 
park. There were three of them in the dressing- 
room ; which were all narrowly examined. They 
were all shut fast; and no indication could be 
discovered that they had been opened. They 
proceeded to the tire-woman’s bedroom. It 
was close by, opposite to the Princess’s sleeping- 


34 


ANNA HAMMER. 


apartment, and had two windows, which were 
found fast, like the others. 

The enigma grew more and more inexplicable. 
The old tire-woman stood beside the bed wring- 
ing her hands and weeping, unable to utter a 
word. There w T as no need that she should do 
so for her own vindication. Forty years ol faith- 
ful service, w r ith the deceased consort of the 
monarch and with the Crown Princess, spoke 
loudly enough for her. 

A fearful silence rested upon all present. 
Prince Brodi examined every thing again. He 
made the round of the apartments a second 
and a third time, examining every spot and 
grain of dust on the tables, windows, and doors. 
He suddenly remained standing in astonishment. 
It was by a window in the tire-woman’s apart- 
ment. He looked at the sill and panes, and then 
again at panes and sill. 

“ Do you sleep soundly, Madame Bedeau.” 

“ I do now r , sometimes, especially w T hen 1 go 
late to bed. Her Highness is sometimes obliged 
to ring two or three times w r hen she requires me 
during the night.” 

“ Did you hear no noise last night?” 

“ None at all.” 

“ And yet !” said the Prince ; who then went 
on to disclose what he had found. A faint trace 
of white sand, scarcely discernible, appeared on 
the window-sill. He pointed out its outlines w’ith 
his finger, in silence. 

“ The track of a foot !” exclaimed the monarch, 
in astonishment. 

“ A very small foot,” added the first lady-in- 
waiting. 

“ A dress-boot,” remarked the Seneschal. 

“An aristocratic foot!” added the Crow T n 
Prince. 

“ The sand comes from the footpath in the 
garden,” remarked another. 

“ Right,” said the Prince. “ But the darkness 
is not yet cleared up ; the mystery is still unex- 
plained. The w’indow’ is shut fast — fastened, like 
the others.” 

The w’indow was again narrowly examined. 
They looked, felt, tried ; they endeavored to 
raise, to shake it ; but the w’indow still remained 
shut. All at once the old tire-woman, w’ho had 
anxiously follow’ed the examination and conver- 
sation, shrieked out : 

“ Good heavens, the ventilator — let me look !” 

She hurried to the w’indow : all made w r ay 
for her. She touched a single pane in the lower 
part of the w’indow. It was a pane which could 
be opened separately from the others. It w r as 
opened and closed by a little bolt on the inside, 
constructed in so w T orkman-like a manner, that 
it w’ould escape the observation of the keenest 
observer who was not previously aw’are of it. 
This bolt was draw’n ; and the pane opened, the 
moment the woman pressed on the right spot. 

The key to the enigma was found. An arm 
thrust through the open pane could easily reach 
the w’indow’-bolt, and so open the whole window. 
There was an abundance of tracks on the out- 
side, under the window’, upon the espaliers that 


surmounted the wall. No doubt could be enter- 
tained, that some one from without, unknown to 
the soundly-sleeping tire-woman, had climbed 
up, and committed the robbery. 

“ There is now but a single thing to be cleared 
up ; w’ho is the impudent author of this desperate 
crime ?” 

No reply w r as made to these w’ords, w’hich 
w’ere uttered with an almost solemn emphasis. 
The gravity of the monarch grew more and 
more deep and painful. He slowly withdrew 
leaving a brief order to Prince Brodi to come also. 
All follow’ed him in silence. The Seneschal said 
in a low’ tone to the Prince : 

“What do you think of this affair?” 

“I think that somebody must have done it,' 
replied the Prince so gravely that the Seneschal 
seemed for a long time to be meditating on the 
significance of the words. 

The valet of the Crow’n Prince w’as standing 
in the corridor. There was a look of perfect 
indifference in his cunning eyes, but the forefinger 
of his left hand was held across his chin. It 
seemed to have been a concerted signal between 
his master and himself. The Crow’n Prince re- 
mained standing, and called the servant up to 
him. 

“ Jean,” said he, “ smooth the wrinkles of this 
coat collar, and fit it better another time — ” then 
asked in a low tone : “ What’s the matter ?” 

Jean smoothed the coat collar, and replied, 
almost without moving his lips, and in a voice 
audible to the Prince only : 

“ Colonel Reuter.” 

“ In my cabinet,” rejoined the Prince, in a 
tone equally low’. 

He w’ent from the corridor upon the terrace, 
from the terrace into the hall by the entrance, 
from the hall back to the terrace, as though some 
thought had suddenly struck him, returned into 
the castle, w’ent up the stairs, to his own apart- 
ments. He walked up and dow’n his cabinet, in 
an agitated manner, till the valet opened the 
door, and the person w’ho had been announced 
came in. 

Colonel von Reuter was a man above the 
middle height, w’ell built, measured and yet easy in 
his movements. His countenance w’as striking ; 
he had a high, broad, arched forehead, aquiline 
nose, a small mouth, almost hidden by a carefully 
arranged mustache, a broad round chin. His 
eyes were not very deeply sunk, but were over- 
hung by a heavy projecting forehead, and shaded 
by thick black eyebrow’s, so that all that could 
be made out was that they w’ere small and dark : 
their actual color could not be distinguished. 
The w’hole countenance w’as overspread with a 
remarkable paleness, w’hich at first sight pro- 
duced an impression almost startling, for the 
features being firm and rigid, and the hair of a 
raven black, but entirely destitute of gloss, re- 
minded one involuntarily of graves and coffins. 
When the first impression w r as over, how’ever, 
the features, which w’ere not destitute of re*nt- 
larity though not precisely handsome, seemed 
interesting, captivating even ; for they indicateu 


LIFE AT 

an unmistakably deep mind, reflection, a con- 
scious strength of will, and, perhaps as the re- 
sult of all these, a calm repose, a quiet inward 
satisfaction. Only at intervals one could fancy 
that he could see a sudden fiery gleam shoot 
from those dark eyes, as though in the very 
heart ol hearts of the man there was raffing a 
contest ol hostile elements, or as though he would 
search the subject which he was considering to 
the very bottom. 

He wore no uniform, but had on a simple 
citizen’s coat, without any orders. He advanced 
toward the Crown Prince with a silent, low 
bow. The uneasiness of the Prince was not 
lessened by the entrance of the colonel ; on the 
contrary, his appearance appeared to make a 
somewhat unpleasant impression upon him. 
Meanwhile he attempted to control himself, and 
extended his hand to him with a tolerable ap- 
parent degree of carelessness. 

Colonel Reuter took the hand respectfully, 
bowed over it, but did not kiss it, as strict eti- 
quette perhaps required. He threw a keen, in- 
quiring glance at the Prince. 

“ Welcome, Colonel,” said the Prince. 

“ Your Highness seems to be moved,” re- 
marked the Colonel, in a clear and quiet tone, 
corresponding precisely to the gravity of his 
mien. 

“ Tired out.” 

“ Something weighs heavy upon you, my 
Prince.” 

“ I don’t know. But what do you bring ?” 

“ You will not find it agreeable.” 

“ Let me hear it.” 

“ My Prince, political catastrophes are at 
hand; or, I might rather say, a single great 
catastrophe is at hand.” 

“ And not a favorable one ?” 

“ My intelligence will not sound favorably to 
you. Europe is about to undergo a great and 
radical change. The old system is about to fall ; 
it has for a long time been tottering. The sys- 
tem of the dynasties — ” 

“ Do you not look upon it too gloomily, my 
dear Colonel ?” 

“ I look upon things as they are.” 

“ A thing is often one thing, and soon quite 
another again.” 

“ It seems to be one thing, and is another ; 
but I look upon things as they are, not as they 
seem; for I trace them up to their original 
causes ; and from their nature, progress, and de- 
velopment, to their relations and consequences.” 

“ Well, then, about the system of dynasties ?” 

“ It has outlived its time. The divine order 
of things is about to enter upon a new phase. 
The consciousness of the people is aroused. It 
has slumbered for centuries. It is awakened.” 

“ By a few restless individuals.” 

“ Your Highness, you have much too clear a 
judgment to believe in this twaddle of ministers 
and chamberlains, who will not see and can not. 
The masses themselves, the people, are en- 
kindled.” 

“ Who are the people ? Define that idea for 


COURT. 35 

me ; show to me practically, comprehensibly, 
who constitute the people.” 

“ The millions of citizens whom to-day you 
call your subjects. Who are the people in En- 
gland, in Norway, in Switzerland, in North Ameri- 
ca? Freemen. The freemen are the people. 
And the history of freemen — the history of the 
people — enkindles the people; enkindles and 
creates ever more freemen, even in Germany. 
The state of the case, my Prince, is just this : 
either in England and Norway (I lay less stress 
on Switzerland) freedom and popular rights must 
be abolished, or freedom and popular rights 
throughout all Europe — and first and foremost 
in France and Germany, perhaps also in Italy — 
will break out for themselves a sudden and fear- 
ful path.” 

“ In spite of the League of the Sovereigns? 
In spite of the Confederation of the German 
Princes? In spite of the Holy Alliance?” 

“ What is the use of fire-insurance against a 
hail-storm, my Prince?” 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“ Pardon me ; the illustration was lame and 
trifling. In calculating your leagues and alli- 
ances, one factor is wanting — the people — and 
always again the people.” 

“ Just as in the fire-insurance, to return to 
your illustration, the fire has not entered into 
the contract.” 

“You set aside my illustration, but not my 
proposition. All leagues which thrones and 
dynasties form among themselves, can protect 
thrones and dynasties only when the people are 
in the bond ; for without people there can be no 
ruler ; as the people make their rulers, so it is 
the people only who can support and uphold 
their rulers. And of just this are the people 
becoming more and more conscious ; and her© 
lies the danger for the thrones.” 

“ And this, Colonel, you denominate the divine 
order of things?” 

“ I see in every thing — even in the small- 
est — the ruling hand and providence of God. He 
has deemed it necessary, in his wisdom, to suffer 
for centuries single chosen families to bear rule, 
and to subject the people to them. If his wis- 
dom now sees fit to subject families to the peo- 
ple, we must conform ourselves, humbly and sub- 
missively, to his supreme will.” 

“ You delight in such mystical views.” 

“ This is no mysticism. I could demonstate 
to you that it flows from the course and current 
of history ; but I will limit myself to matters of 
fact. All Europe is fermenting. In France a 
fearful storm must before long break out. Bay- 
onets can not long uphold the rotten throne. In 
Italy the volcano is choked but scantily, and with 
difficulty. In Poland exasperation and conspi- 
racies increase day by day. In Germany the 
ground is undermined further and deeper con- 
tinually. Even in Russia smoulders, just now, 
under-ground, the fire of Revolution.” 

“ Are these dreams or tidings?” 

“ Tidings. You know my travels and my 
connections. Believe me, my Prince, I tell jrou 


36 ' ANNA HAMMER. 


only facts. The great net of conspiracy is woven 
over almost all Europe — a conspiracy, secret, 
noiseless, but only so much the more danger- 
ous.” 

“ We must not fear the danger; and then it 
does not exist. The thrones are still standing, 
and will stand for a long while yet.” 

“ Bui we must not despise the danger either.” 

“ Agreed. We must destroy it,” replied the 
Prince ; and then added, with some uneasiness, 
which he vainly sought to hide; “ and what means 
have you for destroying it ?” 

“ Your Highness, let us think the matter over 
a little together. To-day I would limit myself 
to my communications. Will your Highness 
allow me to take my leave ?” 

“ When do you report yourself officially ?” 

“ To-morrow morning at parade.” 

He went out. Whether or not satisfied with 
the result of the conversation, who could read in 
his rigid features ? 

At the same moment, in a distant and solitary 
portion of the castle park, a person was walking 
slowly up and down. He was a handsome 
young man, of a proud, free, lofty bearing, with 
a bold, open look, in which, nevertheless, lay 
something of melancholy. He seemed to be in 
deep thought, so that he scarcely noticed that 
after a while a tall, odd-looking figure had come 
opposite him. When he perceived this figure 
he said, without any surprise, but with an ex- 
pression of earnestness : 

“ Well, Geigenfritz, what have you brought 
me ?” 

“ Nothing at all, sir,” was the short reply of 
the adventurer. 

“ No trace ?” 

“ Sir, I enjoy, as you are aware, a great many 
acquaintances, and I see many things, hidden 
and not hidden; but I haven’t yet found him.” 

“ Not even a trace of him ?” the young man 
said, repeating his question. 

“ Not even a trace.” 

“ Where have have you been ?” 

“ In the north and in the south, in the east, 
and — to speak the truth — I’ve been in the west, 
but not all over it. There are two spots where 
I have not reached, where he may possibly be. 
But I promised you tidings here to-day, and I 
must keep my word. I’m off to-morrow, and 
shall finish my search. But you must not be too 
sanguine.” 

“ And what is your opinion of the affair ?” 

“ Let me keep that to myself till we meet 
again. But how does it look to you?” 

“ As to you.” 

“ Nothing at all then ?” 

“Nothing.” 

He was preparing to go away. 

“When shall we see each other again, and 
where ?” asked the young man. 

“Ah, yes!” He looked for a space search- 
ingly, and with a peculiar expression, into the 
eyes of the young man. Then he went on, 
shaking his head gently. “We can’t see each 


other again here ; but I’ll come across you. 
Don’t trouble yourself about that. I can’t tell 
you the when and the where to-day. Now do 
me a favor.” 

“Well.” 

“ Help me over the wall. I can hardly do it 
with one hand.” 

The young man looked at the hands of the 
brown individual. The left was wrapped up in 
a handkerchief.” 

“You are wounded.” 

“ All my own fault. A rascal, whom I wished 
to hold, cut my hand. I shouldn’t have meddled 
with him. I knew it beforehand.” 

“ Perhaps you had been dreaming again ?” 
asked the young man, in a jesting tone. 

“ I don’t dream ; but I see much the more.” 

“The old story again. Your seer’s eye 
seemed to light upon me before.” 

“ It lit upon you.” 

“And what did it see?” 

“ Help me over the wall.” 

They w T ere standing by the wall which sur- 
rounded the park. Geigenfritz laid hold of a 
branch of a tree with his sound hand, in order 
to swing himself up. The young man aided 
him with a powerful arm. He was over in a 
moment. 

“ You’d like to know what I saw,” said he, 
then. “ Hearken. You’ll have some luck to-day 
that you don’t think of : whether it will bring 
you luck is quite another question.” 

With a sudden leap the brown individual dis- 
appeared. The young man turned thoughtfully 
back. The words which the other had spoken 
seemed to affect him sensibly. Whether on ac- 
count of the prophetic intelligence, or on ac- 
count of the delay of the expected tidings, who 
knows ? 

By the fish-ponds he was met by Colonel von 
Reuter. 

“ I knew that I should meet you here.” 

“Meet me, Colonel!” 

“I saw you going into the park half an hour 
ago. You are uneasy, Master Bushby.” 

“I was not aware of it, Colonel,” was the 
somewhat cool reply. 

“ Your efforts are useless.” He uttered the 
words with a special emphasis. 

Bushby started, but looked with a clear, quiet 
gaze into the face of the Colonel. 

“ Are you any way concerned in my secrets, 
Colonel ?” 

If he hoped to disconcert the Colonel, he was 
disappointed. He replied to him calmly, and 
with a friendly expression : 

“ I only took an interest in your fate, and in 
that of another person dear to you.” 

The young man was now almost disconcerted. 
But he tried to appear indifferent. On the other 
hand it was easy to see that he had no particu- 
lar sympathy with the Colonel. 

“ You have been traveling, Colonel,” remark- 
ed he, drily. 

“ I have been traveling, and during my trav- 
els I have learned many secret .histories; and 


37 


LIFE AT COURT. 


many a persecution oi past times, many a stern 
fortune, many a fearful penalty for the noblest 
sentiments, and for the holiest endeavors, have I 
become acquainted with.” 

He laid a special emphasis upon each of his 
words. The young man looked suspiciously at 
him. He seemed to be anxious to divine what 
object the Colonel had in speaking thus. In an 
indifferent tone he rejoined : 

“ People usually learn many things in travel- 
ing.” 

“ Young man,” said the Colonel, in an em- 
phatic and friendly tone. “ You do not trust me. 
It is not my fault. I certainly have no right to 
demand your confidence. Yet I have more right 
than you think, perhaps, to warn you. You stand 
here upon dangerous ground.” 

He looked at the American -with a peculiar, 
sharp, piercing look, and left him without speak- 
ing another word. All the blood rushed in- 
voluntarily in a moment from the face of the 
young man. After a moment’s reflection, he 
said to himself. 

“ What does this mysterious man desire ? But 
w T hy should I be alarmed ? I understand his habit 
of putting persons in anxiety.” 

But he was not quieted. He paced about 
for some time, now with long strides, now with 
short ones, back and forth from the water. In 
his countenance, which he had little power to 
disguise, might be plainly seen that he was in a 
state of great inward commotion. Single words 
which he uttered aloud also betrayed this. 

“He said,” exclaimed he to himself, “that 
vre should not meet here again ; and the other 
spoke in a tone of warning. T wo mysterious per- 
sonages. But the adventurous fiddler, at least, 
means honestly, and however much of fancy there 
may be — how much dreaming in his second sight 
— I can not accuse him of an untruth. What he 
dreams comes to pass. What more have I to do 
here ? The abyss of the fearful mystery remains 
sealed up. Two persons only are in possession 
of the key. They are inaccessible. But still 
he said that my efforts were useless. But how ? 
He may be the third. I know him well enough. 
He pretends that he knows something. Yet, 
indeed, he may know it. His manifold connec- 
tions ; his sway over ordinary men. But if he 
be in the secret, he is closer than the others — 
and — more cunning. And now she — ” 

He quickened his pace, in his rising excite- 
ment. Every motion betrayed that there was a 
storm and a struggle within him. At last he 
remained standing. Then he spoke, with a tone 
of determination : 

“ And so away ! It must be so. Perhaps in 
this decision lies the fortune of which the old 
man spoke — dubious — yes, dubious indeed.” 

He went on toward the castle with a firm 
stride. He crossed the vacant terrace into the 
interior of the building ; then up the broad stair- 
case which led to the apartments of the Princess 
Amelia. He entered the ante-chamber of the 
Princess. A servant was there, of whom he 
inquired whether the Princess was alone. He 


was informed that a lady-of-honor was with her. 
The answer seemed to clear up the step which 
he meditated. 

“ Announce me,” said he. 

The servant went in to announce him ; and in 
a few moments he was introduced into the bou 
doir of the Princess. The Princess Amelia way 
alone. The lady-of-honor was in the adjoining 
apartment. The Princess seemed to have been 
weeping. Her features indicated sorrow, her 
eyes were red.” 

“ Princess,” said he, “ I come to take my leave 
of you.” 

“ You are about to travel?” 

“ I must leave this place. A stern fate com- 
pels me.” 

“You will leave us altogether?” she asked, 
in evident alarm. 

“ It is a sacred duty that calls me hence.” 

She w T ent with tottering steps into the adjoin- 
ing apartment, and spake a few words to the 
lady there. He heard her then leave the room 
by another door. The Princess returned. She 
went to the window at first, and turned her face 
from him. It appeared that she must collect 
herself, and gather strength before she could 
speak further to him. After a short time she 
approached him. 

“Bushby,” said she, “must you leave us?” 

“I must,” he answered. The reply came 
from a heavy heart. 

“ Shall you,” she asked, and the question came 
from a heart still more weighed down, “shall you 
leave Europe?” 

“ I know not wdiither my fate will lead me.” 

She was silent. He too did not speak. A 
long pause ensued. It was not a pause of em- 
barrassment ; it was a moment of deep anguish. 
She looked, with eyes blinded with tears, upon 
the flowers of spring on the table which stood 
close by her. He waged a severe, painful con- 
test with himself. He found words first. 

“ Princess Amelia,” said he, “ many unquiet 
days await me, perhaps many gloomy hours. 
But one star there will be to conduct me through 
the deepest night of life. One image will console 
me in the bitterest hour of sorrow. One thought 
will uphold me even in the moment of my de- 
parture from this world. Thou art that star, 
that image, that thought.” 

He began to speak, with a forced calmness ; 
but with the very first words, his hardly sup- 
pressed emotion burst forth. He seized the hand 
of the Princess, and pressed it to his heart. She 
trembled, withdrew her hand, and covered her 
face with both her hands. He made a vain at- 
tempt to speak. Suddenly he collected himself : 

“Princess,” said he, “forgive me.” 

She held out her hand to him. The word 
“ farewell” hung upon her lips, but she did not 
utter it. All at once she withdrew the hand she 
had extended to him. and tottered to the vase of 
flowers which stood by the chair. It contained 
two half-withered roses, which were exactly 
alike. S'he took one of them, and came back to 
him. She placed the rose in his hand. 


33 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“ It is the most precious thing I possess,” said 
she. “ Let it be ever sacred to you.” 

He took the rose, trembling. Her heart now 
appeared to have decided. 

“ My noble friend,” she said, “think with this 
rose on your friend, who from this day forth is 
again desolate. You are the first man whom I 
have ever known thoroughly — you will be the 
last. Oh, how much do I owe you. Never, 
never, can I forget you. But should ever the 
flower of gratitude become less blooming in my 
heart, then” — she took the second rose from the 
vase, and continued — “ then shall the rose from 
the grave of my mother, remind me what I owe 
to my distant friend.” 

“ This rose,” said he, “ shall nev-er leave my 
heart. It is the dear pledge of two hours which 
can never be forgotten ; the sweetest and the 
most painful of my life. 0 Amelia, upon that 
night when we stood by the grave of your mother, 
too early taken away, and plucked this rose, 
while your spirit lay so infinitely clear and pure 
before me, upon that night struck the happiest 
hour of my life. To-day — I have before now 
lived through fearful hours of sorrow — the heart- 
rending sorrows of a noble mother — but this day 
has struck the most painful hour of my life.” 

She had covered her tearful eyes with her hand. 

“ Farewell,” said he, in a slow and whispered 
tone. 

He went toward the door, then turned back 
again. She stood motionless as though charmed 
to the spot, with her face still hidden. He went 
up to her, and knelt before her. Tears forced 
their way from his eyes. She did not move. 
He rose. All at once she rushed to him : 

“Edward,” she cried, “do not forsake me.” 

“ God in heaven ; Amelia!” 

He embraced her with both arms. She wound 
her own about him, and hid her face upon his 
bosom, while a flood of tears gushed from her 
eyes. Their lips met : They enjoyed the bliss- 
ful moment of the utterance of pure and chaste 
affection. 

“ Our covenant is made forever,” said he. 

“ Never, never will we part.” 

“ I could never have existed without thee.” 

“ I should have had only my mother’s grave, 
and but to die there, hadst thou forsaken me.” 

“But, Amelia,” said he, turning pale, “you 
do not know me. The stranger, the unknown, 
has stolen into thy guileless heart.” 

“ I know thy heart. I love thee. That is 
enough for me. I will follow wherever thou 
leadest me, through the whole earth, through 
life. Let us go this very day. I am thine.” 

She uttered these words with the inspiration of 
the most devoted love. He was still perplexed. 

“ Amelia, thou knowest not who I am. A 
gloomy fate follows me.” 

“ Thou art a noble man who lotfes me.” 

The magic of love constrained him. “ My 
whole life belongs to thee. Thou art not de- 
ceived in me.” 

“ Then take me away from this place. Let 
me this very day belong to thee alone.” 


“Flee ?” 

The sorrow in which he had found her, uprose 
again in her. “Yes, flee!” she exclaimed. 
“This court is fearful, horrible, to me. Ask 
me nothing to-day. I can not remain a moment 
longer here without thee. Thou wast here the 
sole anchor of my life.” 

“ And thine old grandfather ?” 

“ He has ever been indifferent toward me.” 

“ But a seci'et flight, Amelia. The honor 
of a princely house.” 

“ My brother is the head of it. My brother — ” 
she checked herself, and then, after a brief 
pause, continued : “ My brother does not love 

me. It will be more pleasant to him when I am 
away, and it will to me also be more pleasant 
far away from here, in the new world of America, 
by thy side, by the side of thy noble mother, in 
whom I shall find my own mother again.” 

He made no further opposition. 

“ When shall we set off?” she asked. 

“ This evening.” 

“ I will have every thing ready.” 

“ At ten o’clock I will be at the third gate in 
the park wall.” 

“ I will be waiting there.” 

They separated. 


CHAPTER IY. 

THE BANISHMENT. 

At the western extremity of a pleasant little 
village, lying in the midst of level fields, where 
the straw-thatched houses came to an end, stood 
a little apart a solitary house. It was situated 
in a garden, planted with vegetables, and set out 
with cherry-trees. The house had a pleasant, 
cheery aspect. It was two stories high, and with 
clean white walls, bright windows, and red roof, 
was visible for a considerable distance over the 
lowly roofs of the hamlet, across the gardens, 
and the full waving corn-fields. The wearied 
traveler, when his eyes rested upon it, thought 
involuntarily of rest and refreshment ; images of 
repose from the ills of life came over the wan 
derer, and to the unfortunate the white walls 
and red roof of the house seemed to speak of 
consolation and peace. 

But it was not altogether rest, peace, and 
consolation that abode within that habitation. 

Before the door, within the shadow of a pear- 
tree, an aged woman, poorly but cleanly clad, 
sat in an arm-chair, propped up by cushions. 
Her aspect denoted age sorely tried, feeble, and 
near to its end. Her eyes were weary, her feat- 
ures languid, her hands meagre. In her coun- 
tenance might be read the expression of heavy 
sorrow in the past, and of a still longing for the 
future, perhaps for the eternal rest. Her hands 
lay folded upon her bosom, her eyes were di- 
rected across field and meadow toward the blue 
expanse of heaven. 

As so often happens upon this earth of ours, 
close by the portals of death stood the rose- 
crowned cradle of life. 


THE BANISHMENT. 


39 


At her feet was playing a stout rosy child of 
some five years old. Like the aged woman, he 
was poorly but cleanly clad. The childish feat- 
ures were not yet disturbed by sorrow ; joy, 
gayety, and gladness only abode there. His de- 
sires went not beyond the object nearest at 
hand ; and that he always had, for that only 
which he had seemed to him the nearest and 
dearest : at the present moment, this was the 
flowers with which he was playing. 

“ Grandmother,” said the child, after he had for 
some time looked meditatively upon the flowers, 
and in a half interrogatory tone, “ Grandmother, 
mamma says the flowers are alive, just like you 
and I.” 

“ Certainly they are alive. Every thing is 
alive which the Lord has made,” answered the 
aged woman. 

“ Then it must hurt them when I pick them, 
or fling them about.” 

“ They do not feel pain, for they have never 
done any thing wrong ; they are like the angels 
in heaven, who also feel no pain. Pain is some- 
thing evil, and those only feel evil who do evil. 
The angels and the flowers do nothing evil ; they 
only do good to men.” 

“ But the angels are glad when I am good. 
Can the flowers feel glad too ?” 

“ The flowers may perhaps feel gladness. 
Have you never seen how thankfully they lift 
up their blossoms, and how beautifully and joy- 
ously they smell when the dear God sends them 
a warm rain from heaven ?” 

The boy sat looking fixedly, thinking upon the 
words of his grandmother. 

A young woman came to them from the house. 
She was slenderly and delicately formed. A long 
mournful story of grief and sorrow was legible 
in her countenance. She looked mournfully and 
uneasily toward the road which ran by the little 
garden. Then she turned in an affectionate 
manner to the old woman. 

“Do you feel better, dear mother?” 

“ The joy of seeing them again so soon 
strengthens me wonderfully. It seems as though 
the heavens were about to bestow upon me once 
more strength to taste the fullness of earthly joy, 
in order to call me away to eternal bliss.” 

“ Heaven will preserve you to us for a long 
while yet. What should we do without you? 
How often have you, by your clear, calm spirit, 
been my stay and support? To what arm 
should I flee, w’ith whom should I seek joy and 
relief, should sorrow again beat upon my poor 
head ?” 

“ The Lord will grant you better days. He 
mingles a portion of sorrow in the cup of every 
man. Thine seems to have been all exhausted.” 

“ The sorrows of mankind are never exhaust- 
ed.” 

“ Do not be ungrateful, my daughter. Has 
he not, in a wonderful manner, granted us help 
and deliverance in our sorest need ? Can he not 
now give thy fate an altogether different turn ?” 

“ What, without restoring to me my poor 
husband ?” 


“Can he not do even that?” 

“ Not without a miracle.” 

“ Men call the unsearchable ways of the Lord 
miracles. Who shall prescribe these to him? 
Has not the Lord already wrought miracles for 
us? Works he not for us miracles, daily and 
hourly ? This house, this garden, this chair, 
these soft cushions upon which I sit, these gar- 
ments which we wear, are they not miracles? 
A few weeks ago we had them not ; and had 
any one then promised them to you, would you 
not have answered him incredulously, ‘ Miracles 
do not come to pass now !’ ” 

“ It is true, mother. My brother did not re- 
turn, my sister did not come ; day after day we 
waited in vain. No tidings from them reached 
us. You lay in pain and anguish upon a sick 
bed. Daily I grew weaker. My strength di- 
minished, and a severe illness threatened to cast 
me also upon a bed of sickness. I was hardly 
able to creep to the fire to prepare warm food 
for you. The very last poor remnant of our 
money was spent. Our furniture, our clothing 
had been sold. I was already a-hungered ; that 
poor child was crying for bread — for mere dry 
bread. Still my brother and sister came not, 
nor any tidings of them. It was terrible. Then 
came all at once the letter from that unknown 
man — still unknown to us, even as to his 
name and residence. Our necessities were 
relieved. He sent us money — more than we 
shall need for a long time. He assigned to us 
this house and garden, wherein we were to do 
just as though it were our own property. He 
told us not to be discomposed at our sister’s pro- 
longed absence ; promising that she would soon 
return in happiness to our arms ; and to-day, in 
a few hours, we expect her. And Heaven has 
again bestowed health upon you, and strength 
upon me.” 

“ Yet notwithstanding all this, do you still de- 
spair, Joanna?” asked the mother, in a tone of 
gentle reproach. “ You live in a world of won- 
ders ; you feel so near you the delivering hand 
of the Lord, and yet do you doubt whether it can 
again grant you help ?” 

“ No, mother ! In calmness and lowliness 
will I await whatever he may be suspending 
over us.” 

“ Do that, my daughter, and you will thus 
make easier my departure from this world. I 
feel that we must soon part — and in this also 
must you submit yourself to the will of Heaven.” 

The young woman went thoughtfully into the 
garden, toward the road which ran by. down 
which she looked anxiously. Her heart throb- 
bed in expectation, joyful and yet anxious. The 
child had followed her with a garland which he 
had woven from the flowers. She scarcely ob- 
served him, so anxiously were her eyes directed 
down the highway. 

After a while a carriage was seen approach- 
ing. She opened the garden-gate, and went out 
to meet it. It drew nearer. With a beating 
heart she hastened toward it. It was her 
brother and sister, who sprang from the carriage 


40 


ANNA HAMMER. 


into her arms, with countenances beaming with 

j°y- 

“ Joanna, dear, dear sister !” 

“ Bernard, Anna, have I you again !” 

“ And how well you are looking again !” 

“And how pleasantly you are living here.” 

“ But our mother, our poor mother ; how 
anxious she must have been about us.” 

“And do you think I have been less so?” 

“No, no. But let us go to her.” 

The little Anna flew rather than walked to 
her old mother. She embraced her knees, and 
flung herself into her arms. 

“ Mother, dear, dear mother !” 

The old woman pressed the lovely child to 
her heart with a quiet but fervent love : “ I 
thank heaven for granting me the joy of once 
more seeing you.” 

Then she made her stand up, and looked at 
her for a long time with a speechless but vivid 
joy shining from her face. 

“For two years, I have not seen you, my 
dear child. You have grown in stature; but 
what is better, you have grown noble and gen- 
erous. I see it in your clear look. Keep your 
heart ever pure — it is the best mirror.” 

The younger woman came in with her bro- 
ther. He embraced his mother with tender 
veneration. 

“You have suffered much, my son.” 

“For me, mother,” said the girl. 

“The Lord will recompense it to him.” 

“ He has already repaid me, in seeing you 
here so well ' and so free from care. 1 think 
myself happy that I have been the instrument 
in his hand.” 

“Tell us all about it,” said the young wo- 
man. “ Satisfy our curiosity. We know only 
of Bernard’s illness ; and that a generous man 
has taken care of you, and when he knew from 
you of our situation, of us also.” 

“ A generous man is he indeed, that Bali- 
schewski. I owe my life to him.” 

“ I might have been your murdress.” 

“Tell us calmly, and in order,” the mother 
admonished them. 

“ The story will be but brief,” said the young 
man, with a glance at his sister, which assured 
her that her feelings should be spared. “ We 
were on our return, about four weeks ago, and 
had reached a little village. It unfortunately 
happened, that in an inn where we stopped, we 
encountered some rude officers. They misbe- 
haved toward Anna, and I very naturally took 
my sister's part, and was injured by them and 
their soldiers.” 

“ The brutes,” cried Anna, interrupting him, 
“ almost killed my poor brother. I found him 
motionless and scarcely breathing, where they 
had left him, probably thinking that he was 
dead. I tried, with my feeble strength, to raise 
him. It was in vain. I could only raise up his 
head ; and that only caused the blood to flow 
more freely from the wounds which the barba- 
rians had inflicted upon him. I called for help, 
as loudly as I could ; but that too was useless. 


I ran to the houses, and knocked at the bolted 
doors and the closed shutters. It was all in 
vain. Nobody had courage to come out into 
the street, even to make me an answer. They 
were afraid of the anger of the soldiers. I ran 
back in despair to my poor brother. He had 
alreadly begun to grow 7 cold. The blood flowed 
from his wounds, and 1 flung myself upon him 
to die with him. Then came our deliverer. 
He had come to the inn in the village that even- 
ing, a traveler like ourselves. Being fatigued, 
he had retired early to rest. The noise in the 
street awoke him, and my cry for help called 
him out. His coachman followed him. To- 
gether w T e bore my almost dead brother back to 
the inn ; but how dreadful for me even to think 
of it — the landlord refused to admit us ; the 
officers had forbidden him to do so, he said. 
Whether this were or were not so, We wero 
obliged to turn back. With difficulty, we found 
out the residence of a surgeon, and there we 
went. He dressed the wounds, but would not 
let us stay with him, for he too was afraid of 
the violence of the soldiery. Nobody in the 
place would take us in. We could not leave 
my dying brother in the cold, wet street. Our 
noble deliverer ordered his carriage, and in this 
we placed our still unconscious brother. We 
drove slowly to the town-gate. We had to 
drive for a full hour upon the highway, till at 
last we found a road-side inn where we could 
be received.” 

“ Poor, poor Bernard !” 

“ Poor unfortunate Anna !” 

“ I will not describe to you my agony and 
anguish. For two days my brother’s life was 
in danger. I never left his side. The stranger 
— no, no, not stranger, for he was to us more 
than a friend, he was a father — Balischewski 
did not abandon us. On the third day, Bernard 
recovered his consciousness. The physician 
pronounced him out of danger. How rejoiced 
I was. Balischewski had called two physicians, 
who prescribed for our brother. He took care 
that we had all that we needed. I must tell 
him about you. He promised to send you 
tidings of us, and to see to it that you did not 
suffer w 7 ant. I told him your circumstances, 
not till afterward, and when urged to do so, but 
I must do so, I must indeed; for I could not 
abandon you to despair.” 

“ Good, kind Anna, we owe you our lives ; 
our mother and I. Without the assistance 
which that noble friend gave us, we must have 
perished.” 

“ Ah, he was so kind. He thought of every 
thing. I am indebted to him for my harp; he 
brought it from the town where I had left it.” 

“ And who is this excellent man ?” 

“ We know nothing of him, excepting his 
name,” answered Bernard. “ He never speaks 
of himself, and avoids all questionings. We 
have never even learned his residence. From 
his name, he would seem to be a Pole. But 
from some conversation with a police-officer, 
who asked for his permit, I imagine that he has 


THE BANISHMENT. 


41 


an English passport, or, at least, is under the 
protection of the English embassador.” 

“He promised also,” said Anna, “to see to 
it, at the capital, that the officers should be 
punished.” 

“ When I was out of danger,” continued Ber- 
nard, “ he could stay with us only a few days. 
When he took his leave, he gave me to under- 
stand, as I thought, that he was acquainted with 
Vorhoff.” 

“ With my husband !” exclaimed the young 
woman, with sparkling eyes. “ What did he 
say of him ? Speak, I pray you !” 

“ Only a few words, and very obscurely. 
‘ Tell your sister,’ said he, ‘ that her husband 
is not yet lost to her!’ ” 

“ Did he say that ? What more ? what 
more ?” 

“ ‘ Let her take courage,’ he added ; but 
nothing further. I entreated him, for your 
sake, to explain himSelf more clearly. He 
merely replied : ‘ Do not ask me. I must say 
nothing more to you.’ I believe that he is a 
member of a great and widely-spread confed- 
eracy which has been secretly formed among 
the people throughout Europe, in behalf of lib- 
erty. I infer this from some words which he 
let fall.” 

“ Not lost ! Oh God in heaven ! if he have 
but spoken truly.” 

“Behold, Joanna,” said the aged mother, 
“how the gate of miracles seems about to open. 
Trust thou only in the Lord. Here have I re- 
ceived my children again, whom we thought 
lost. Come to me, my poor Bernard, my son 
who hast suffered so much, and whose sorrows 
have thus brought gladness to us all. Thou 
wert. right; thou wast the instrument in the 
hand of the Lord.” 

The young man bent over the hand of his 
mother, and kissed it. She examined with 
anxious care the scars which the wounds on his 
head had left behind them. She inquired about 
his general health, and especially about the 
pain in his breast, and rejoiced with a deep 
though quiet joy, when she learned that he was 
far better than before his maltreatment, and, in 
particular, that there was a remarkable mitiga- 
tion of the pain in his chest. 

Madame Vorhoff, meanwhile, gave herself up 
to a half-yearning, half-painful joy. Leading 
her child by the hand, with her sister by her 
side, she wandered through the garden, dream- 
ing of past days, of joy and of sorrow, of care 
and grief, but also of love and enjoyment and 
exultation, and sending her thoughts forward 
into the broad, boundless future, full of fears 
and hopes, full of anxiety and longing. At one 
moment her eyes fell tearfully upon her boy ; at 
another, they swept hopefully across the fields 
awav into the infinite blue distance. After a 
while she left them. She must be alone, as she 
always must when her heart had received an 
unwonted impression. 

Anna Hammer went back with the boy to ( 
her mother, who was sitting alone, for Bernard > 


had also gone out to attend to some business. 
The aged woman appeared to have been wish- 
ing for the return of the girl, and that they 
might be alone together. She pressed her to 
her heart, and kissed her tenderly. Then she 
said to her : 

“ Sit down by my feet, Anna, and listen to 
me.” 

The girl did as her mother directed. The 
child played around at a little distance. 

“Anna,” proceeded the aged mother, “my 
days are numbered — perhaps only a few hours 
remain. My dearest wish in this life was to 
see thee again. This wish has been this day 
fulfilled. Joanna and Bernard were the chil- 
dren of my joys and of my hopes. You were 
but an infant when fortune forsook us : you were 
the child of my grief and of my care. There- 
fore my heart always clings so closely to you, 
and thence the yearning to bestow once more 
upon you a mother’s blessing before I should 
leave this world.” 

The girl kissed her hand, without speaking. 

“ I do not wish to give you any admonition. 
Your heart is pure ; your soul is full of the fear 
of God ; you have a strong, free spirit. These 
qualities of nature will not suffer you to depart 
from the path of virtue. But one request, one 
last request. I would make of you. Your sister 
is feeble. The heavy woes of her heart, ex- 
ertions, and deprivations, have early undermined 
her health. Your brother was always delicate. 
Neither can give much support to the other. 
Do you take upon yourself the charge of them ; 
remain true to them, in faithful, sincere, sisterly 
affection ; never leave them, even in the worst 
of times. Promise me that.” 

“Oh, mother!” said the weeping girl, “could 
you ever have doubted that I would be other 
than a true sister to them ? How could I have 
a pure heart ? — how could I have the fear of 
God, could I ever abandon my sister and my 
brother ?” 

“ I did not doubt; but the prayer of a dying 
mother takes fast hold of a young heart. Now 
it is well.” 

“And you will remain a long, long time with 
us yet,” said the girl, resuming a more cheer- 
ful aspect. 

The aged woman shook her head. 

“ My hour is come,” said she, with a fore- 
boding intonation in her voice. After a pause, 
she proceeded: “Tell the boy about his father. 
The minds of children early receive those im- 
pressions which direct their course through life. 
Their hearts and spirits must gather strength 
from great and noble examples; the influence is 
doubled when these examples can be taken from 
those belonging immediately to them. The re- 
membrance of his father must ever be preserved 
lively and vigorous in the child’s heart. I can 
no longer do this; I am too old. The heart of 
his mother overflows when she but mentions to 
her orphan the name of his father. You must 
tell him of the deeds and the sorrows of that 
man who was put to so stern a proof.’’ 


42 


ANNA HAMMER. 


The child had been listening. Although the 
image of his little aunt had entirely disappeared 
from his recollection during her two years"' ab- 
sence, yet his mother and grandmother had so 
often spoken to him of her. that he quickly made 
himself at home with her. He looked up im- 
ploringly at her, and said : 

“Tell me about my father, aunt Anna. Is he 
soon coming back to us ?” 

“ Let us hope that he will do so, my good 
little Paul.” 

“ Where is he now, aunt ? Mamma says 
that she doesn’t know.” 

“ I don’t know either. We suppose that 
wicked men have put him in prison, and won’t 
let him come to your mamma and you.” 

“ Why won’t they let him?” 

“ Ah, my dear Paul, that’s a sad story.” 

“ Tell it to me ; but don’t cry, as my mam- 
ma does.” 

“ Listen to me. We live in a beautiful coun- 
try which is called Germany. In this country 
live many thousands and thousands of brave 
men. A good many princes live here, too, and 
govern these brave men. Many years ago, an 
enemy came into this country ; a powerful em- 
peror, who ruled over France. This emperor 
attacked the German princes, and conquered 
them, and made them his subjects. This lasted 
full seven years. The enemy was proud and 
cruel, and the German princes, and the people, 
too, had to bear a great deal from him, a great 
many plagues and troubles, and oppressions and 
wrongs. But the German people quietly collect- 
ed their strength, and when the oppression of 
the foreigner became too severe, the people join- 
ed with the princes, and fell upon the foreigner, 
and drove him out of the country, and set them- 
selves free — the people and the princes.” 

She broke off with a laugh. “ I’m telling 
the child about things that he can’t understand, 
mother.” 

“ Just go on, and tell him still more, and tell 
him every day. You are giving him food for 
reflection. What he doesn’t understand to-day, 
he’ll understand to-morrow ; and will, sooner or 
later, create a clear and lasting image within 
him.” 

The child had listened to the narration, in 
fact, with the most fixed attention. She con- 
tinued : 

“ The German princes, too, had often op- 
pressed the people before that time. They had 
not given them what belonged to them. But 
now when the people stood by them, and put 
them on their thrones again, the princes solemn- 
ly promised that the people should not be op- 
pressed any more, that they should be free, and 
should have all their rights back again. But 
what men promise in need they don’t always 
hold to when the need has passed away. So it 
happened in German}^. When the German 
princes were again seated on their thrones, 
they thought nothing more of what they had 
promised : and they oppressed the people even 
more than the foreign Frenchman had done.” 


“That was wicked in them!” exclaimed the 
boy, eagerly. 

“Don’t you see how he understands you?’ 
said the mother. 

“ Just so the people thought. Then arose 
some German men, and said so aloud. Among 
them was your father, Paul. He had been 
among those who had driven the foreign enemy 
out of the country, and had seated the princes 
again upon their thrones. He had met the 
enemy in many battles, and his face and breast 
bore many scars from the swords and bullets 
of the enemy. He, and many friends with him, 
came forward and said : ‘ Have we shed our 
blood, and broken the foreign chains, that our 
own princes should put us in new chains? Have 
we made the princes free, that they should make 
us slaves ?’ They demanded aloud that the 
people should have their old rights — -which had 
been promised to them besides — given to them 
again ; that they should be made free again. 
They asked the people to stand by them, and 
ask the princes to do what was right. But the 
princes would not listen to their prayers, and 
threatened to throw them into prison, as dis- 
turbers of the people, unless they kept silence. 
But these men would not keep silence, for they 
were striving for their own and the people’s 
rights. They only became more careful, in or- 
der not to provoke force before the time, and 
met in secret to take counsel how they might 
get again the rights of the people. And so 
thousands of the noblest men and youths of 
Germany joined themselves together, and labor- 
ed in secret. They were betrayed ; the police 
fell upon them, and carried them off to prison. 
They were accused as traitors. The judges 
sentenced many of them to death, and others to 
be always shut up in dark prisons.” 

The girl was silent, affected by her own 
narration. 

“Did they sentence my father, too?” inquired 
the boy. 

“Yes, my poor child : they sentenced him to 
death at first ; but finally they changed it to 
imprisonment as long as he lived.” 

“ But mamma says that he is alive yet.” 

“ That we don’t know. Your mother, your 
grandmother, and none of us have seen him 
since the evening when the gendarmes sudden- 
ly came, tore him from our midst, and dragged 
him away. That was an awful hour for us !” 

“ Where was I then !” 

“You, my child, were not then born. You 
have never seen your father; and his eyes have 
never looked upon you.” 

“ But I will see my father,” said the boy, 
with an air of determination, as though it rest- 
ed solely upon his own will. 

“ Think thus always,” said the grandmother, 
“always think that you shall see your father, 
and your father you, and that will make you 
glad when you have grown up to be a fine brave 
man.” 

“ When I get to be large, I will look up my 
father, and bring him back to my mother.” 


THE BANISHMENT. 


11 See Anna, see the boy’s spirit. Oh. cher- 
ish it,” 

The young woman came back from the 
house. Her countenance bore an expression of 
inward quiet. She also sat down at her mother’s 
feet, twining one arm around her younger sis- 
ter, and with the other drawing the boy to her 
bosom. After a few minutes came the young 
man to them. They formed a pleasant and 
cheerful group. 

‘‘We are all together again now,” said 
Madame Vorhoff. “ One is absent ; but as he is 
with us in spirit, and we with him, so let us 
hope that the time is not far distant when we 
shall all be again united with him. And so let 
us, with gratitude to God, enjoy our present 
happiness. I have already formed a plan for 
the conduct of our quiet life, for the present. A 
miraculous assistance has brought us to this 
abode. We are sheltered from our most press- 
ing anxieties. What we are able to earn by 
our industry we can lay by for evil times, which 
we must not venture to overlook.” 

“ You must spare yourself,” put in the little 
Anna. “ You stand in need of rest. Bernard 
and I will work for you. I have already laid 
my plans too.” 

“You!” laughed the elder sister in a kindly 
manner. “ Let us hear them, my wise Anna.” 

“I shall get up in the morning at about five 
o’clock, sweep the house and get breakfast 
ready. About eight o’clock I shall awake our 
mother and you, and we will breakfast together. 
Then I shall betake myself to my kitchen de- 
partment, to get dinner ready ; and you and our 
mother and Paul can walk about in the garden. 
After dinner I shall sit down with you, and we 
will sew and knit and embroider, till it is time 
for me to go and prepare our little supper. 
After supper I will fetch my harp and Bernard 
and I shall play and sing. Ah, it will be a 
grand way of living,” 

“ And so you are going to take all the work 
upon yourself, and I must have no share in it ?” 

“ You may knit, when you get quite well.” 

“ And Bernard ?” 

“ He may draw a couple of hours a day. 
But he needs rest too.” 

“ You’ve forgotten only a few things, certain- 
ly. Who is to take care of our little garden ? 
and who is to teach little Paul his primer ?” 

“ The little fellow shan’t suffer, I’ll take the 
care of the little garden upon myself too. I can 
get through with making ready the breakfast 
by six o’clock, and then I shall have two hours 
left for the garden. Bernard and I will share 
between us the teaching of Paul his primer.” 

“ My plan is a little different. You shall 
have charge of the kitchen ; but the garden we 
will share in common. Working in the garden 
will contribute greatly to my regaining my 
strength.” 

“I beg for a share in that, by-and-by,” in- 
terrupted Bernard, “ when cherry-picking time 
comes. That must be my business.” 

“ Agreed. Paul’s primer, I shall take en- 


43 

tirely upon myself. But you can in the mean- 
time give him lessons on the harp.” 

“ Excellent ! excellent !” exclaimed Anna 
and the boy. 

“ Bernard shall draw only for his own im- 
provement. No more embroidery patterns and 
such-like work. He has neglected his own art, 
and must betake himself to it again. This 
summer he shall spend here in the fresh country 
air, so that his chest can get quite strong again. 
In the winter he shall go to the capital, to the 
Academy. I have reckoned it up, and if we 
are industrious we can earn enough so that he 
can stay a half-year in the capital. In the 
second half-year his art must support him.” 

“ And the Herr Brother will get to be a fa- 
mous artist !” said Anna, in a tone of comical 
pathos. 

They had chatted themselves into a merry 
mood. But the eyes of the aged mother appear- 
ed to grow the more troubled, the more those of 
her children lightened up. But yet she appear- 
ed to be doing violence to herself, in concealing 
that which disturbed her, so as not to hinder 
their joy. But all at once an involuntary spasm 
passed over her whole body ; her children 
sprang up in terror, and pressed around her 
with pale countenances. 

“ Mother, what is the matter with you ?” 

She attempted to smile, but her eyes moved 
in a manner that showed it to be beyond her 
power to do so. 

“ It was nothing, my children. Go on with 
your conversation. I shall be better soon.” 

But their happiness has come to a sudden end. 
Misfortune often comes suddenly and overwhelm- 
ingly upon the joys of mankind ; and the purer 
was the joy, the more overwhelming is the sor- 
row. Is it that there is an envious hostile power 
which often holds sway, and sets at naught that 
which the good genius of humanity has but just 
arranged ? Or is it the ruling hand of divine 
Providence, ever working good and wisdom, that 
sends upon us pain and sorrow, in order to 
bring about our highest development ? 

While they were yet anxiously looking upon 
their mother, and occupying themselves about 
her so suddenly changed condition, a girl ran 
hastily into the garden from the village, dressed 
in the ordinary attire of a respectable peasant. 
She was almost breathless when she came up 
with the family group. She did not observe 
their anxious countenances, and appeared to be 
in great anxiety herself. 

“ Madame,” said she hastily, and without 
further preparation, to the elder daughter, 
“ make haste and leave this place, all, all of you 
together. They are about to arrest you.” 

The terror arose to agony. “ Whom are 
they about to arrest ?” asked Madame Vorhoff, 
who did not appear to have fully understood 
what she had been told. 

“ You, all of you. The magistrate is there 
with a notary and two gendarmes.” 

“ Us ! It can not be so, my child !” 

“ It is only too true. They have just stopped 


44 


ANNA HAMMER. 


at the inn. I heard myself how the magistrate 
told my father that he had orders to arrest the 
whole family. He has brought a carriage with 
him to take you away. You seem to be noble, 
unfortunate women. So I ran here to give 
you warning.” 

Madame Vorhoff wrung her hands, looking 
all the while at her mother, whose features had 
assumed an expression as though death were 
near, very near. Bernard walked about unde- 
cidedly. The younger sister had seized convul- 
sively the hand of her mother. 

The aged woman raised her drooping head. 
“I anticipated,” said she “what has now come 
to pass. Do not flee. Follow your fate bold- 
ly 5 trust in God. He will lead you, through 
struggle and sorrow, to victory and gladness.” 

Her voice was once more clear and firm. 
She spoke in a tone almost prophetic. Madame 
Vorhoff had now regained full possession of her- 
self. 

“ We will not flee, mother,” said she. “ We 
will not forsake you. We are conscious of no 
crime, no guilt. We will remain, come what 
may.” 

Then turning to the daughter of the inn- 
keeper, she proceeded: “We thank you, my 
child, for your friendly sympathy. We are in- 
nocent. Our fate must be accomplished.” 

The girl left the garden with slow steps, and 
weeping. In a few minutes came the magis- 
trate with his attendants. He was followed by 
an ordinary wagon, with straw strewn ove'- the 
bottom. 

“ Which is Madame Vorhoff?” he asked, aj 
he entered the disturbed family circle. 

“ I am, sir.” 

“Follow me.” 

He went with her into the house, followed by 
the notary. She conducted him into the sitting- 
room. 

“ Your husband is the writer Vorhoff?” 

“ He is, sir.” 

“ He was some years ago implicated in some 
political affairs?” 

“He was, sir.” 

“ He was condemned to death for an attempt- 
ed murder of the Prince, and for high-treason ?” 

“For high-treason. My husband is no mur- 
derer.” 

“ Never mind that. His punishment was com- 
muted by the monarch to imprisonment for life.” 

“ Does he yet live ? answer me that question, 
I entreat you.” 

“ It does not form part of my commission. 
How do you support yourself?” 

“ By the industry of myself and my sister, and 
brother. We embroider and design. The pro- 
ceeds of our labor give us our poor support.” 

“ How much rent do you Day for this house 
and garden ?” 

The woman hesitated. 

“Well ?” 

“ Sir, I can not tell you that.” 

“ And why not. You are embarrassed. What 
has that to do with the rent?” 


“I do not know why I should conceal the 
truth. A stranger rented this house for us, and 
pays the rent.” 

“Ah ! Who is this stranger?” 

“ I know only his name. It is Balisehewski?” 

“ His country ? His residence ? His occu- 
pation ?” 

“I do not know them.” 

“ Speak the truth.” 

“ Sir, I am not accustomed to falsehood !” 

“ Madame, you would not have me believe 
that a person who is a total stranger to you, 
whose occupation and residence you do not know, 
would pay for you a rent which must be some- 
thing considerable.” 

“ Yet so it is.” 

“ Enough of that, Madame. I can only be sorry 
for you, Madame, that you have in any way be- 
come involved with this stranger. Your hus- 
band is under sentence for treason. The State 
is empowered by law to punish you and your 
children with imprisonment for life, and to ban- 
ish your immediate kindred from the country 
The government has hitherto treated you with 
forbearance. It has permitted a free and undis- 
turbed residence in the country to you and jmurs. 
But instead of gratefully recognizing this for- 
bearance, you have entered into dangerous con- 
nections.” 

“ Good Heavens, sir ! Is it then a crime for 
the poor to accept a kindness, that restores them 
to life?” 

“ Certainly, under some circumstances. In- 
surrectionary and treasonable projects have again 
made their appearance in the country. That 
stranger who calls himself Balisehewski is very 
probably a member of that secret association, 
which has for its object the overthrow of all ex- 
isting institutions. Your connection with him 
makes you in like manner suspected. In short, 

I am commissioner, by the Minister of Police to 
announce to you, that you and your family can 
no longer be suffered to remain in the country ; 
and I have also orders to see that you are trans- 
ported this day across the frontier.” 

“ How, sir ! What crime have we committed ? 
We live here as quietly, perhaps, as any person 
in the whole country. We do not concern our- 
selves about politics or the government.” 

“You have heard what has been announced 
to you.” 

“ But, sir, you will not be so cruel.” 

“ My will has nothing to do in the matter. 
I am simply an instrument of the Ministry, and 
have only to carry their orders into execution.” 

“ I am sure that the Ministry would recede 
from this terrible procedure, if they were ap- 
prised of our innocence.” 

“ Madame, you are mistaken as to the state 
of affairs. You are not innocent. According 
to your own confession you are guilty, and 
amenable to the laws.” 

“ I have had no announcement of any such 
legal position.” 

“I beg you, Madame, to prepare for your 
journey. My time is limited.” 


LIFE IN PRISON. 


45 


“Upon the spot?” 

“ The conveyance waits without.” 

“ And whither are you about to convey us?” 

“ Across the frontiers — the nearest frontiers.” 

“ And then, what is to be our fate on the other 
side of the line.” 

“ I do not know. There you will be left to 
shift for yourselves.” 

“And what if they will not admit us there? 
What if they expel us again?” 

“ The authorities on this side will not suffer 
you to repass.” 

The woman was in a perplexity of thought, 
from which she could find no way of egress. 

“ Make haste, I beg of you,” said the magis- 
trate, hurrying her. 

The door opened. The little Anna came in, 
with a countenance greatly troubled. Silently, 
with quivering lips, and eyes from which all 
brightness was gone, she flung herself upon the 
breast of her elder sister. 

“Oh, God!” cried the sister forebodingly, 
^Our mother is dead !” 

“ She is dead,” sobbed the girl. 

“ Madame,” said the officer, in the uncon- 
cerned voice proper to his functions, “ I am 
sorry that you have experienced this two-fold 
blow of misfortune; but I must beg of you to 
set out at once.” 

“ But, sir, it is our mother, who has just de- 
parted.” 

“ I will see to the burial.” 

“By strange hands !” she said, with a shud- 
der. 

“ Let there be no delay, I ask you for the last 
time.” 

“ Oh God, Oh God, thy trials are severe in- 
deed !” sighed the poor woman. 

Let us throw a vail over their parting from 
the house, the garden, and the corpse of their 
mother. 


CHAPTER Y. 

LIFE IN PRISON. 

On the frontiers of the country of which we 
have been speaking, upon a high hill, apart 
from all others, stands a large, strong, ancient, 
structure. Built without any attempt at regu- 
larity, it presents in one place a long front, in 
another little buildings at the front and sides, in 
another projecting balconies and round towers ; 
but almost every where appear a number of 
small low windows, having massy frames, and 
usually provided with strong iron gratings. 
The style of the architecture, and still more 
these precautions, showed that the building was 
a prison, one of those institutions which, with 
perpetual warning, give most melancholy evi- 
dence of the destructive passions, and the still 
more destructive weaknesses of mankind, and of 
the inadequacy of all public and private under- 
takings, having for their object the elevation 
aad development of the human race. 


The prison of which we speak consisted of a 
number of parts. The main portion was the 
prison itself, the gloomy abode of the victims of 
those passions and weaknesses ; but there were 
also other necessary buildings. Joined to the 
prison, on one side, were buildings of a better 
and somewhat more modern structure, which 
served for the residence of the Commandant and 
of the principal officers of the institution. Op- 
posite to and apart from these, upon a rocky 
projection stood a large, low, round tower, with 
walls of enormous thickness, having three rows 
of windows, the lowest of which was scarcely 
above the level of the rock upon which the 
tower was built. 

The whole group of buildings was surrounded 
by a strong, high wall, but this tower was 
situated partly outside of it. The walls came 
up to this tower in such a manner, that, it stood 
half within and half without them. The outer 
half formed a line almost coincident with the 
edge of the crag upon which the tower stood, 
and which sunk sheer and perpendicularly down 
into a deep chasm overgrown with brambles. 
In the centre, opposite to an inner drawbridge, 
was a wooden gallery, designed for a sentinel 
stationed there. Through the walls, a single 
large strong door led into the interior. It was 
furnished with loopholes, several towers, and 
small sally-ports, so that the whole structure, 
upon its high steep rock, had the appearance of 
a fortress. It had, in fact, formerly served for 
the protection of the frontiers, and was usually 
called the Fortress by its garrison and the in- 
habitants of the surrounding country. It was 
also under military regulations, and had a mili- 
tary Commandant to whom all the civil func- 
tionaries were subordinate. 

In the small, gloomy cells of the main edifice 
dwelt, from year to year, little pleasure, except 
alas, the pleasure often to be derived from the 
gratification of malice ; but all the more abode 
there care and grief, sorrow, misery, and despair. 
Yet the inmates of the fortress were accustomed 
to look with the deepest horror and dread upon 
the low, round tower. No one approached it. 
The rock upon which it was built was separated 
from the hill upon which the other portion of the 
structure stood, by a cleft of considerable width, 
so that the only communication was by a narrow 
drawbridge ; all approach to it was prevented 
by sentinels who paced back and forth in front 
of the tower; every one who had oecasion to 
pass it, went by with a hasty step and terrified 
look, as though they expected to encounter some 
frightful apparition, or be scared by some horrid 
sound from within the gloomy structure. 

This was the consequence of the deep, im- 
penetrable mystery which had for a long time 
shrouded this tower, its secrets, and the persons 
and fates of its inmates. Nothing was known 
about them ; men could only imagine and sus- 
pect, and what they imagined and suspected 
was vague and undefined, and was spoken of in 
a whisper. The Commandant was the only one 
who seemed to know who were in the tower 


46 


ANNA HAMMER. 


and why they were there. But the Command- 
ant, so said the officers, communicated only with 
the Minister of War in relation to this tower, 
and the Minister communicated directly with 
the Sovereign. 

Two old under-officers, gray, reserved, and 
gloomy as the Commandant himself, were, be- 
sides him, the only persons who entered this 
tower ; they served as guards over the prisoners. 
No other person could say that he had ever 
entered this fearful sepulchre. It was said that 
the Commandant sometimes visited the tower by 
night, but nothing certain was known about it. 

In a cell in the third or upper story of this 
tower, a man was lying alone. The cell was 
small and low. Its height was not more than 
seven feet, its length ten, and its breadth five 
feet. Within it were a wooden bedstead, a stool, 
and a small bench. The stool was vacant; 
upon the bench stood a water-jug ; upon the 
bedstead lay a sack of straw ; upon the sack lay 
the man. 

It was evening, and it was dark in the cell. 
Outside of the narrow window, of which, how- 
ever, the breadth exceeded the height, was a 
strong close grating of iron ; beyond this, taking 
up the whole width and length of the window, 
was a metal plate sloping upward, so that the 
opening was at a right angle with the window. 
Little daylight was thus ever admitted ; only as 
much as came in above the top of the plate. As 
soon as the sun went down a long, deep darkness 
reigned in the cell, while it was yet light or 
twilight without. 

The man was lying outstretched and immov- 
able upon the sack of straw. He was not asleep, 
but seemed sunk in deep thought. 

A sound was audible in the passage before 
the cell. At first it was indistinct. After a 
while the slow and heavy steps of a man could 
be distinguished. They ceased in front of the 
cell. The man upon the bed either did not hear 
them, or paid no attention to them. 

Opposite the window of the cell was a little 
door, beside which, in the wall, was an opening, 
having an iron shutter on the outside. A key 
was placed in the shutter — the key was turned, 
and a clear light from a lantern, protected by a 
strong wire network, was thrown into the cell. 

Every object within the cell might now be 
distinguished more clearly. They -were what 
have been enumerated. It seemed as though 
one was looking into a grave in which — horrible 
thought — a person, buried alive, was wearing 
away in agony his last fearful hours. 

Behind the lantern was visible the face of a 
soldier, furrowed by wrinkles and the scars of 
battle. 

“ Get up,” ordered the soldier. 

The man on the bed arose. 

“ Advance,” was the further command. 

The man, who had remained standing beside 
the bed, came close up to the opening, into the 
full light of the lantern. 

He was tall, very thin, but with strongly built 
limbs. The face was of a corpse-like paleness, 


the cheeks hollow and shrunken, the lips livid 
and shriveled, the forehead high and broad, the 
eyes dark and brilliant. A carefully arranged 
beard, black and glossy, like the hair and eyes, 
covered the chin. The aspect of the man was 
that of a soldier. 

The soldier without, examined him from head 
to foot with the most minute attention. 

“ Turn round,” was the third order. 

The man turned his back. 

“ That will do,” said the soldier, with the 
tone of an order, as he drew back the lantern, 
and was on the point of closing the shutter of the 
aperture. The customary evening visitation was 
over ; a closer examination seemed unnecessary, 
since from this cell no escape was possible. All 
that was needed was the assurance that the pris- 
oner was still alive. 

The man in the cell turned round toward the 
soldier. “ Herr Under-officer,” said he, in a 
deep and sonorous voice, “ it has been very warm 
to-day; I have no more water for drinking.” 

“ To-morrow,” answered the officer, coolly, 
without suffering himself to be disturbed in his 
occupation. He closed the shutter, and soon his 
slow, heavy step, receding in the distance, could 
be no longer heard. 

The life of the prisoner was simple and uni- 
form. Early in the morning the officer brought 
him a jug of fresh water and a loaf of bread ; 
and at the same time removed what had been 
left overnight. At noon the same officer brought 
him his dinner in a pewter bowl, to which was 
fastened a pewter spoon. In the evening the 
visitation which we have described, took place. 
All communication took place through the open- 
ing beside the door. These were all the inci- 
dents in the life of the prisoner — one day was 
like each other. Three times a day he saw the 
officer; and besides him he saw no one. Once 
a year the Commandant, of the fortress, followed 
by the two under-officers, all in full uniform, en- 
tered the cell. It was apparently the day of 
general visitation. 

Thus for five years and longer had he lived 
in the cell. He was entirely cut off from com- 
munication with the world without. He had no 
book, no writing, not a sheet of paper, save that 
the Bible lay in the cell. When the sun had 
gone down no light illumined the darkness. The 
officer said not a word beyond his brief orders : 
he never gave a word of answer to the questions 
or to the imploring entreaties which the prisoner, 
during the first period of his confinement, had 
made respecting his friends. In subsequent 
years the prisoner also w'as silent. The lips of 
the Commandant were always silent as the 
grave. 

The prisoner was utterly ignorant of the place 
of his captivity. He had been brought there by 
night, and since then had never left his cell 
The metal plate before his window did not even 
permit him a view of the vault of heaven. 

For five long years he had not even known 
whether, besides himself, a single living person 
inhabited the prison in which he was confined. 


LIFE IN PRISON. 


47 


Bat a little while before, on one still night, he 
thought he heard the sound of a voice far below 
him. He listened — the cry seemed to be re- 
peated. He arose from his hard bed, threw 
himself upon the floor of the cell, and laid his 
ear close to the planks. He heard nothing, and 
returned to his bed. Again he heard the same 
sound. It sounded like a moan of distress. He 
sprang up again, listened, with his ear to the 
floor. It was gone again. He went to the win- 
dow, placed his ear to it, and thought that he 
again perceived the sound ; but he could distin- 
guish nothing. He did not dare to open the 
window, for he had been forbidden to do so after 
dusk, under the penalty of corporal punishment. 
The tower was surrounded day and night by 
guards who, like all other sentinels throughout 
the fortress, from sunset to sunrise, kept each 
other on the qui vive by a loud “ Who's there ?” 
repeated every five minutes. 

The prisoner went back to his bed ; but sleep 
and rest had vanished* For a long time he 
thought he heard the sound, now louder, now 
more faintly. It was not till toward morning 
that he fell asleep. 

He was restless all the day following. The 
sound never passed from his memory ; but had 
he actually heard it ? or did he only imagine that 
he had done so? did it exist save in his fancy? 
He waited longingly for the gloom of night to 
come. Evening came, the still hour of night 
followed, and with it returned the painful sound 
far below him. He had made preparations dur- 
ing the day, had left the window ajar, so that 
it could be opened without noise. He opened 
it, and held his ear close to the window-plate. 
He could not accurately distinguish the sound, 
but it was a human voice that he heard ; of that 
he was convinced. He thought that it must 
certainly proceed from the same building in 
which he himself was. And as it seemed to 
come from below him, and in a perpendicular 
direction, he concluded that he himself occu- 
pied an upper story of the edifice. No farther 
discoveries could he make without danger of 
being discovered in his attempt. But he was 
fully convinced that he had heard the moaning 
of a fellow-prisoner. 

Imagination, the longing for companionship 
and sympathy, were all powerfully aroused in 
him. Every other idea was repressed, and he 
thought only how* he might approach and sym- 
pathfze with his fellow-prisoner — his suffering 
fellow-prisoner. One must have been himself 
an inmate of a lonely and silent cell to be able 
to appreciate that irresistible longing for com- 
panionship and sympathy. 

It was manifestly impossible to communicate 
by speech with the person whose voice he had 
now heard for two nights. Under his window, 
and thus nearer than he himself was to the win- 
dow of the prisoner, a sentinel stood day and 
night. Any sound would be heard, reported, 
and punished 5 and any further communication 
be made forever impossible. 

Inarticulate signs, therefore, only remained. 


But how should he find, and how apply them. 
He even did not know where he was. Still less 
was he acquainted with the environs of his resi- 
dence ; and, least of all, with the situation of 
the place where his fellow-prisoner was con- 
fined. He had before concluded from the steps 
and voices of the sentinels, which sounded far 
below him, that he w T as at some considerable 
height from the ground. When he was brought 
to his present abode he had been conveyed up- 
stairs and down-stairs. He now inferred from 
the sounds from beneath, made by his fellow- 
prisoner, which had grown distinctly audible, 
that there were cells below his own. Every 
thing further was shrouded in impenetrable 
darkness. 

But what means of expressing his sympathy 
were at his command ? He had no writing ma- 
terials, and had nothing which would serve as 
such ; and had he possessed them, how could he 
convey them to the person with whom he wished 
to correspond ? Was not the sentinel always in 
the way ? 

But nothing makes a person more sharp-sighted 
and inventive than the solitude of imprisonment. 

On the third night he heard the same sound, 
listened to it attentively, and compared the quar- 
ter from which it came with that from which 
proceeded the steps and voice of the sentinel 
beneath his window. He found a difference 
between the two. The former not only came 
from a greater distance below than the other, but 
from a direction more directly under him. The 
sentinel must be at least ten or fifteen paces from 
the wall from within which the moaning came. 
Something might be ventured, especially in the 
obscurity of the night. There might even be 
some object between his fellow-prisoner and the 
sentinel, which would prevent observation. At 
last he thought of a material for writing. Some 
years before a storm had blown down a bit of 
slate, probably from the roof, which had been 
caught by the projecting plate outside his win- 
dow, where it had remained unobserved. He 
now recollected it, and took possession of it. It 
was smooth and thin. From one side of it he 
broke off a bit, which he rubbed on the iron plate 
of the door till it was round and pointed at one 
end, like a pencil. With this he could write 
legibly on the slate. 

Here were writing materials. Now for the 
rest. The problem was how to convey the tab- 
let, with the thoughts intrusted to it, to the hands 
of his fellow-prisoner. This was certainly a dif- 
ficult problem. Nothing could be done through 
the under-officer, and no one else came near him. 
The attempt could be made only through the 
window. It was evident from the direction from 
which the sound came, that the cell of the un- 
known lay directly beneath his own. That this 
cell had a window might bo assumed, and that 
this might be exactly under his own w T as at all 
events probable, both in regard to the presum- 
able symmetry of the building, and from the di- 
rection of the sound. If the bit of slate were let 

1 

down by a thread from his own window, it might 


48 


ANNA HAMMER. 


very probably reach the window of the prisoner 
below. The thread was soon provided. The 
first thought was to use the sack for that pur- 
pose ; but this was immediately abandoned, for 
this being changed every month, the defect in it 
would inevitably be detected. A stocking — that 
universal resource in times of need — unraveled, 
furnished ten times as much thread as was neces- 
sary lor the purpose. 

The most apparent way of letting down the 
slate was over the edge of the sloping plate be- 
fore the window. But this demanded consider- 
ation. As the upper edge of the plate projected 
several feet, from the wall, the slate let down 
over it would of course hang at the same dis- 
tance. and it would be scarcely possible for the 
person below to lay hold of it, even should he by 
chance perceive it. And besides, there would 
be imminent danger that it could not be done 
without being discovered by the sentinel. Some 
other mode must be invented; and this was soon 
effected. Time and the weather had effected an 
opening in the bottom of the plate, close by the 
wall, through which the slate could be passed, 
after it was a little reduced in size. 

As soon as it was dark, the prisoner made his 
first attempt. In the first place, he let the slate 
down only a few 7 inches, in order to be sure that 
it was not perceived by the sentinel. He did not 
vary from his usual pace. The danger of dis- 
covery, ow r ing to the dark color of the slate and 
of the thread, was really inconsiderable. 

Thik first night he ventured to do no more, 
but postponed the execution of his plan till the 
following night. Upon the slate he w r rote, “ Who 
is it that moans below 7 ? A sympathizing fel- 
low-prisoner inquires. An answer to-morrow 7 
night, by this means.” He dared write no more, 
in order not to expose himself too much if the 
stone should fall into treacherous hands. 

Slowly and carefully did he let dow 7 n the slate 
with its writing, on the following night ; he had 
tied the pencil to it. If his reckoning w r as cor- 
rect, it must fall exactly w r ithin the window- 
plate of his unknowm fellow-prisoner. The noise 
thus occasioned, though so slight as not to be 
perceived by the sentinel at the distance of ten 
paces, w 7 ould yet be loud enough to be heard by 
the prisoner in his lonely cell. The moaning 
had been silent for the two last nights. 

Slowly, inch by inch, he suffered the thread 
to glide through his fingers, listening intently for 
the least irregularity in the measured tread of 
the sentinel. His heart beat as the tablet de- 
scended inch by inch. Every breath of w 7 ind 
which blew the stone ever so lightly against the 
wall, making a slight noise, which might betray 
the whole project, sent a painful thrill through 
his heart. 

All at once the thread w T ould no longer de- 
scend. The slate must somehow 7 be hanging, or 
must have caught against something. He paused 
and thought. According to his calculation it 
could not have reached its destination, w 7 hich 
must be considerably lower. It could scarcely 
have gone half-way ; and though he bad no means 


of estimating the distance except the sense of 
hearing, yet he could not certainly be so widely 
astray. A number of possibilities presented 
themselves to his mind in rapid succession. 
Could there be a projecting moulding, or a gal- 
lery, or something of the sort between ? Could 
any thing have been interposed w 7 ith the express 
purpose of preventing all communication between 
the upper and the low 7 er cells ? Could any one 
have arrested the tablet ? How very probably 
might there be an opening in the centre of the 
building just w T here he imagined that the slate 
w r as, and a sentinel or watchman be stationed 
there. This last possibility, the worst of them 
all, he rejected at once, since he could not per- 
ceive the slightest movement in the thread, which 
he still held in his hand. Then occurred an- 
other apprehension, w 7 hich, if w 7 ell-founded, in- 
volved the utter failure of his attempt to enter 
into correspondence with his fellow-prisoner. 
Since the stone had stopped midway, there w T as 
nothing more natural than that between the story 
in which he was confined, and that, in which his 
fellow-prisoner was, theie might be another 
story, with still another range of cells ; and as 
the cell and window with which he wished to 
open a correspondence lay directly beneath his 
own, so this middle cell, with its window and 
projecting plate, lay directly between, and would 
consequently interpose a perpetual obstacle be- 
tween him and the window beneath. 

This apprehension was at the first moment 
extremely disheartening. But yet hope and 
courage did not fail him. Carefully, feeling and 
listening with the utmost attention, he drew back 
the thread a half-inch, then an inch. There was 
no opposition. Here was one comforting cer- 
tainty; the tablet was not detained either by 
human hand or by any other obstacle. Slowly 
he let it sink again,, and with the same result as 
before. It stopped when it reached the same 
spot where it had been before arrested. The 
same result followed every repetition. 

There was now, therefore, only a single pos- 
sibility of success. It might be that his missive 
rested just upon the edge of some projection 
midway. It then occurred to him to give the 
thread such a sw r ing as might cause the slate to 
clear this edge. This was certainly not a little 
perilous. It must almost inevitably be accom- 
panied with more or less noise, which might 
lead to instant detection. Still it must be ven- 
tured. 

In the first, place he drew the slate up again 
to see if he could discover any marks by which 
he might guess at the nature of the objects upon 
which it had rested. Nothing could be seen. 
Then he let it down again carefully and slowly, 
in a perpendicular line. As soon as it must 
have almost reached the obstacle, he gave it a 
slight sling sideways, by moving the thread with 
his fingers, like the pendulum of a clock ; at first 
almost imperceptibly, but by-and-by greater, yet 
still with the utmost caution. 

It w 7 as crowned with success. From the 
length of thread which had slipped through his 


LIFE IN PRISON. 


49 


fingers, he ascertained that the obstacle was 
passed. He had not heard a sound. He suf- 
fered the thread to glide on ; the vibratory 
motion still continued. If his supposition was 
correct, that he had passed a window-plate of 
the middle story, and that the window-plate 
which was the aim of his attempt was directly 
underneath, as he had been able to evade the 
middle one by swinging the thread, so the lower 
one could only be reached by a similar deflec- 
tion of the line. The result corresponded with 
his wish and his expectation. The tablet rested, 
and rested in the very direction in which, accord- 
ing to his calculation, it should have done. 

He listened and felt, with the most eager 
attention, as before. But there was no sound, 
no motion. He waited a long time without 
stirring. The clock in the tower had twice 
announced the beginning of a new quarter of an 
hour, but still there was no sound, no motion. 
The bit of slate remained as quietly below as 
though in a grave. He drew the thread up and 
down, in order to give a rattling motion to the 
stone, and thus by the slight noise to excite the 
observation of the inmate of the cell. He did it 
at first gently, then more strongly; but it was 
all in vain. He waited for two, for three hours, 
till the summer night was almost ended. When 
the first gleam of morning revealed the sky, he 
drew up the thread and the bit of slate. There 
was no alteration in it perceptible. 

He was disappointed, but not disheartened. 
His unknown fellow-prisoner might have been 
asleep, or he might have been sick, or his atten- 
tion might have been occupied by other objects; 
a multitude of occurrences might have called 
off his attention. 

On the subsequent evening, he resumed his 
task, but with no better success. The same 
took place on the second, third, and fourth even- 
ings. He was anxious, but still he did not de- 
spair. He still watched, hoping and persisting 
all through the long nights. He had time 
enough during the day to make up for the lost 
sleep. 

On the fifth night, after he had been for sev- 
eral hours on the watch, gently rattling the 
stone every now and then, he all at once felt 
the thread in his hand move. A thrill, half of 
joy, half of apprehension shot through him. 
He held fast to the thread. It was pulled from 
below. He could not doubt that the slate was 
in somebody’s hands. He let go the thread, 
and it fell into the unknown depths below. He 
now had leisure to think of what an accidental, 
treacherous discovery would cost him. This 
consideration came, after it was too late indeed, 
most vividly before him. But he still hoped for 
a fortunate result of this communication with a 
human being, from which he had been so long 
debarred ; for intelligence from the world with- 
out ; for news of his country, of his friends and 
comrades, perhaps even of his own family. For 
years this narrow, gloomy cell had been his 
whole world ; beyond it nothing existed for 
nim. Life, events, had nothing else to offer 
D 


him than the daily round of what took place in 
his cell. Should the result be what he longed 
for, he would come back again from the grave 
into life — a dreary life indeed; but the dreariest 
life is not so horrible as a conscious apparent 
death. 

For a long time he listened, wrought up to 
the utmost intensity, for some sound ; but he 
heard nothing, and with his hopes raised, h<' 
betook himself to his bed. 

The evening following was the one upon 
which we beheld him stretched out upon his 
bed, abandoned to thought and meditation, to 
remembrance and imagination. He had waited 
with the utmost longing for the hour of the 
visit of the under-officer. When he had come 
and gone, and he was more safe from surprise, 
the prisoner hastened to his post at the window. 
He had provided a second thread, to which he 
he had fastened a bit of mortar, to give it suffi- 
cient weight to receive the desired direction. 
This he passed through the aperture in the 
window-plate, slowly, carefully, and silently, 
as on the previous evenings. He felt it pass 
the obstacle in the midst ; it descended lower, 
and rested, beyond all doubt, in the place of its 
destination. In a few moments, the thread 
moved, and he perceived that something heavier 
was attached to it. The mortar must have 
been detached, and the bit of slate attached in 
its stead. He pulled upon the thread ; it yielded, 
and he drew it up without hindrance, and in 
fact the slate was there. With a beating heart, 
he drew it through the opening in the window- 
plate. It was in his cell — in his own posses- 
sion. 

How impatiently he cursed the deep dark- 
ness which would not permit him to read the 
answer : for that he had an answer in his hands, 
he did not doubt. Had he, for but a half-min- 
ute, been able to recall only the tenth part of 
the light which the officer had not long before 
poured so brightly into his cell ! As anxiously 
as though he was keeping guard over a price- 
less treasure, he laid the bit of slate under his 
bed, so as not to efface a letter of the writing. 

He then flung himself upon the bed, but un- 
quietly, and not to sleep. There was a tumult 
within his breast. He closed his eyes, opened 
them, and closed them again. He became more 
quiet ; he dreamed of the past and of the future. 
When he again opened his eyes, it seemed to 
him as though the sky had grown light. He 
sprang up, and rushed to the window. It was 
certainly light without. He then bethought 
himself, of what in his excitement he had not 
considered, that it must be the beams of the 
moon, which had now risen, that kindly illu- 
mined his night. He drew forth the slate in 
triumph. The light, though scanty, sufficed to 
enable him to read it. 

The slate was written over. He could have 
pressed the lines to his lips. A feeling thrilled 
through him, like that with which one receives 
1 the first lines written to him by his beloved. 
His grave was now opened, even though it were 


50 


ANNA HAMMER. 


to let in but a single feeble ray of life. He ■ 
read ; 

“ An unfortunate man, who has been for years 
deprived of liberty and of human society, was at 
last thrown upon an agonizing sick-bed. The , 
paroxysms of fever wrung out from him moan- j 
ings which he blesses, since they reached a sym- 
pathetic ear. Oh, that they may have brought 
him a friend in the Unknown ; may the mode 
of communication which they have opened not 
be closed, until perhaps some good fortune shall 
open to both the doors of their prison. I am 
sentenced to imprisonment for life. They call 
me a traitor. My name is Vorhoff.” 

“Oh God, Most High !” exclaimed the pris- 
oner. “ Vorhoff, Vorhoff!” My friend, the 
companion of my misery ! But he too lives ! 
He too — for life ! What a discovery !” 

The pale face of the man exhibited the most 
contrary emotions — surprise, joy, grief, bewil- ; 
derment. He could not refrain from giving vent 
to his feelings. “ Bless thee, moon,” he cried. 
“I hail thee as warmly as ever lover did!” 
He answered the missive on the spot. 

“ Vorhoff, my friend, my brother, it is thy Hor- 
berg, the companion of thy efforts, of thy en- 
deavors, of thy sufferings, whom also the walls 
of thy prison shut up in eternal night. I was 
condemned to death, but they graciously com- 
muted my punishment to solitary confinement for 
life — graciously ! Probably your own story also. 
We have been so nigh to each other for years, 
perhaps, without knowing it. I have been here 
for more than five years. So close together, 
•only separated by a little space. What a mel- 
ancholy pleasure lies in that thought. Answer 
.me soon — immediately. The moonlight will suf- 
ifice to do so. For five }*ears I know nothing 
that has taken place in the w'orld. How goes it 
■there ? What is said ? What is done ? How 
.fares our country ? our friends ? my unfortunate 
wife 

He again attached the bit of slate to the thread, 
pushed it through the aperture, and suffered it 
to glide down. He ventured to do this, notwith- 
standing the moonlight, as he trusted that the 
dark color of the slate and of the thread would 
escape the eyes of the sentinel. The stone 
reached its destination, and the movement of the 
thread showed him that his friend was waiting 
lor it, and had loosed it — why should not he have 
been filled with the same longing, and have watch- 
ed with a like unchanging eye, awaiting the new 
message ? After a longer pause he felt that an 
answer had been attached to the thread, the end 
of which he had kept in his hand ; he drew it up, 
and it came uneffaced into his hand. He read : 

“We share the same terrible fate. I was 
sentenced to death, and received the same miti- 
gation as you. For five years have I been here, 
and, as I supposed, the sole human being, besides 
our keepers. Where we are I know not. The 
world without has no existence for me. I hoped 
to learn from you something about my wife, from 
whose side I was torn a few months after our 
union : of my child whom she then bore under 


her heart ; and of the fate of our associates. It 
w r as a brief, anxious hope, but it gave me sup- 
port. Thou, my dear Horberg, art no longer 
alone. Thou hast me ; thou hast once more 
found a sympathizing heart. We can once more 
interchange our affection — the sole joy of the 
unfortunate ; and perhaps also our hopes, if thou 
remainest still the man of bold hope. Answer 
me again soon.” 

He read these words with a feeling of infinite 
sadness. How* short had been the joy of his 
hope. The old gloomy night was again around 
him — the night of long years. The grave, the 
unsealing of w r hich he had expected to hear, was 
again closed up for long years, perhaps — nay. 
probably — forever. He might indeed be a man 
of bold and cheerful hope ; but where was there 
a gleam of light to which hope could turn ? He 
could not that day return another answ’er to his 
friend. He laid himself in sorrow down upon 
his hard and lonely bed. 

At that moment he heard a step without, in 
the passage before his cell. The step was dif- 
ferent from the usual pace of the under-officer, 
which he knew as well as he did the voice of 
the man. It was lighter and more deliberate. 

Not only was the step unknown to him, but 
the fact was something unusual. .During the 
whole period of his imprisonment, he had never 
heard a sound by night in the passage. This 
step paused first before his cell. A deep silence 
reigned in the passage as well as in the cell. 
He did not stir, in order that he might miss no 
part of this unwonted occurrence. What could 
this nocturnal visit denote ? Who could it be ? 
to whom could it relate ? These questions 
thronged through his mind, as he listened to a 
slight sound, as though a key were placed in the 
lock of his door. Directly afterward the door 
was opened, and the gleam of a little dark lan- 
tern shone into the cell. The lantern was borne 
by a tall, stout man, in the full uniform of a 
superior officer. It was the Commandant of 
the fortress. He was without attendants. He 
closed the door through which he had entered, 
and then called out in a half whisper : “ Captain 
von Horberg.” 

The prisoner had never during his imprison- 
ment been before addressed by his name. It 
was as though with his liberty he had lost his 
name. In many prisons, in fact, the prisoners 
bear no name at all, being known only by the 
number by which they are entered on the list, 
or that of the cell which they inhabit. Further- 
more, the Commandant had never before entered 
the cell, except at the time of the annual general 
inspection of the prison, and then he had always 
been attended by his subordinates. 

Still vainly thinking over the occasion and pur- 
port of this unusual visit, the prisoner slowly arose 
from his bed, and stood in erect military attitude 
before the Commandant. 

“ Captain von Horberg,” he continued, “ I have 
come by the direct command of his Highness.” 

There lay a world of possibilities for the pris- 
oner in those words — of favorable or unfavorable 


LIFE IN PRISON. 


51 


possibilities. He trembled through his whole 
frame. He could return no answer. 

The Commandant proceeded, in a suppressed 
voice : “I am ordered to say to you that his 
Highness will release you from confinement, 
upon certain conditions. 5 ’ 

It was necessary for Captain von Horberg to 
summon up all his powers in order not to betray 
the whirlwind of feelings which he was too proud 
to manifest in presence of the stranger. 

“ Name the conditions,” said he, in a voice 
which in spite of all his efforts was faltering 
rather than firm. 

“ The conditions are only two. First, you 
must forever lay aside your own name, and pledge 
your word of honor never to impart to any person 
your real name, condition, or history. You can 
assume whatever name you please. Secondly, 
you will be taken immediately from your prison, 
under guard, on board a ship to be designated 
by his Highness, and conveyed to an island in 
the South Sea, and you will pledge your word 
of honor, on no condition whatever to leave that 
island.” 

“ You have no further conditions to propose 
to me ?” asked the Captain. 

“No.” 

“ And the reason of this offer?” 

“ I only know my orders — which I have ex- 
ecuted.” 

“ And my — ” the Captain hesitated to utter 
the words which were upon his tongue ; but he 
was impelled to free his heart, upon which they 
pressed. — “And my wife,” he hastily added, 
“ will she accompany me ?” 

The Commandant was silent. 

“Answer me, sir.” 

“ She will not accompany you,” was the reply, 
emphatically uttered. 

“ Does she live ?” 

“ She lives.” 

“ And will she not accompany me ! can she 
not? and why can she not?” 

“ She will not accompany you.” 

“ Sir, your answer shows me that you have 
something to conceal. Do not be unfeeling to- 
ward an unfortunate prisoner. Speak out what 
you have upon your heart respecting the fate of 
me and mine.” 

The Commandant made no direct reply. “Do 
you accept the conditions?” he asked. 

“ I can not give you a decision till you have 
answered my question. You can not but ap- 
preciate in what a terrible condition your silence 
must place me.” 

“ Sir, I request you to give me your decision.' 

“ I am unable to do so." 

“ Captain,” said the Commandant after a while, 
with more feeling than could have been looked 
for from his.dark and rigid countenance, “you 
were a brave and excellent officer. You won a 
name for yourself in the war of liberation. The 
army speak of you with esteem, till the devil 
blinded your eyes, and made you a traitor. In re- 


membrance of that time, I entreat you to agree 
to the conditions, and not to throw away from 
you the freedom which your sovereign proffers to 
you.” 

“ Sir, the fate of my wife is known to you — 
it must be known to you. I can not give you 
my decision until you make me acquainted 
with it.” 

“ It will avail you nothing,” said the Com- 
mandant, shaking his head. 

“ I must know it.” 

The Commandant looked down undecidedly ; 
at last, he said, “ Well, then, your liberation is 
at the desire of your wife.” 

“ And the conditions also?” 

“ The conditions also. But ask me no far- 
ther. Upon my word of honor I shall make you 
no farther answer.” 

“ And she will not accompany me !” ex- 
claimed Captain von Horberg, while a fearful 
suspicion arose within him. 

“ I have already told you so 1” 

The Captain could no longer contain himself. 
He abandoned himself to the suspicion which 
possessed him. His wife, indeed, desired his 
freedom ; but she would not share it with him ; 
she only desired it at the price of his name, his 
existence. For what would he be without his 
name, without his history, upon a solitary island 
in the far-off Southern Ocean ? What would 
he be, when he had vanished, without leaving a 
trace, from the civilized world ? It was not 
compassion which opened his dungeon ; and if 
it were compassion, this compassion was only a 
specious vail, by which the voice of conscience 
was to be deadened ; or — terrible thought — the 
covering which was intended to conceal dis- 
grace. He paced up and down the cell with 
long and ( rapid strides. 

“ Make your decision, sir,” pressed the Com- 
mandant. 

Horberg strode up in front, of him. One more 
question seemed to be on his tongue ; but he 
suppressed it. 

“ I remain,” said he, decidedly. 

Surprise and astonishment were depicted 
upon the countenance of the old officer. 

“ Sir,” said he, “do not come to a hasty de- 
cision. There is no other way for you to leave 
this cell than the one which has been pointed 
out to you. You are in the prime of life.” 

“ I remain, sir,” was the decided answer of 
Captain von Horberg. And then, with averted 
face, he added, in a whisper, to himself, “ 1 
can not owe my liberation to my dishonor ; the 
thought would kill me.” 

“ Captain von Horberg, I entreat you — ” 

“ Sir, you pledged your word of honor, and 1 
respected it. I now give you my word of honor : 
I rgmain, under the conditions prescribed. It 
is the word of honor of a man ; respect it.” 

The Commandant departed in silence. He 
locked the door of the cell behind him, and his 
steps died away along the passage. 


52 


ANNA HAMMER. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE CONSPIRATORS. 

It was a Sunday afternoon. A profound still- 
ness reigned in the lonely hut of the day-laborer, 
which was scarcely broken by the buzzing of a 
fly. The laborer was lying upon a bench, in 
his shirt-sleeves, but otherwise dressed. His 
Sunday coat hung on the back of a chair be- 
hind him. He was smoking an old brown pipe, 
and gazing vacantly up at the ceiling ol the 
room. His wife sat not far from him at an open 
window, looking out into a little yard, where a 
hen and her chickens were busily searching for 
their food. 

Nothing can exceed the quietude and con- 
tentment of an industrious laborer, who earns 
his week’s wages, and has besides something 
laid up for a rainy day. Sunday is to him a 
day of rest, and nothing more. He gets up 
early, for that is his custom. He walks around 
his little place, whether it be his own property 
or not, in order to look to every thing ; and be- 
sides, he must recover, by motion and the fresh 
air, the pliability of his limbs, which have grown 
stiff by his week’s labor. He enjoys his break- 
fast hugely, which is somewhat better than on 
week-days. His wife then gives him his Sun- 
day-clothes, and he dresses himself for church 
slowly, quietly, deliberately. Still he is ready 
sooner than his busy wife, or than the children, 
who are running about in all directions, can be 
called together by the mother, by alternate beg- 
ging and scolding, and be fitted out in Sunday 
guise — that is, with shoes and stockings, which 
they never wear during the week, with better 
jackets, and clean shirts and collars. When he 
is entirely ready, all except his Sunday-coat, of 
which he is very careful, ajid never puts on till 
he is fairly on the way to church, he lights his 
pipe, and sits <down to smoke and await his 
family in the warm sunshine which pours itself 
over the street. There he sits till the family 
are all ready to set out for church. While they 
are calling him, his wife brings out to him his 
Sunda)r-coat, so that he need not go back into 
the house to fetch it. Surely Sunday is a day 
of rest for the man who has toiled all the week 
long for his wife and children, from morning till 
late at night. Slowly and quietly they loiter 
along to church, with the acquaintances whom 
they encounter by the way. They merely sa- 
lute each other, and then are silent. To-day, 
every thing which is not obliged to be in mo- 
tion rests — the tongue not excepted. At church 
the sermon is listened to sometimes with the 
half-attention of complete relaxation from effort, 
oftentimes with a half-somnolent doze. As soon 
as service is over, the good woman hastens 
homeward to get dinner ready. The husband 
has at last grown a little more easy in his coat. 
People have had a long enough rest in church. 
Acquaintances are now greeted in a livelier 
manner; conversation arises about this and that; 
about friends and neighbors, about work and 
wages ; about the weather, the crops, and such 


like. When the husband gets home, dinner is 
eaten. It is, to be sure, simple, as it always is ; 
but eating at leisure, and in the society of his 
family, gives it a double zest. All the week 
long he has taken his solitary dinner hastily out 
in the fields, from a little dish, which one of the 
children has brought him. To-day he eats it at 
home, in his family. After dinner, his children 
go out into the fields, or to visit their acquaint- 
ances. He stays at home with his wife. He 
lays himself down upon the bench and sleeps, 
his wife makes him a cup of coffee, or fetches a 
pot of beer from the village. When his nap is 
over, he drinks the coffee with his wife, or the 
beer by himself. Then he lights his pipe, and 
stretches himself out again upon the bench, and 
smokes, and thinks, or more frequently, smokes 
without thinking, till evening. His wife, mean- 
while, sits at the window, and reckons up what 
she has saved the past week, and plans new 
savings for the week upon which they have 
entered. 

Such is the Sunday life of the industrious day- 
laborer of Germany ; of him, that is, who has 
reached the most favorable position which his 
class can hope for ; whose good fortune has given 
him a good employer. 

It was a beautiful warm summer afternoon 
the air was clear and still ; not a leaf stirred on 
the tree before the little cottage of the laborer. 
The fragrance of the newly-cut hay in the neigh- 
boring meadows came gratefully into the win- 
dows. The peasant enjoyed it not ; he was 
wrapped in the smoke from his pipe. His wife 
inhaled the fragrance with a sort of Sunday satis- 
faction. Her calculating eye glanced over the 
chickens into the distant space. 

It was a charming landscape. The cottage 
lay on the slope of a hill overgrown with thick 
laurel-bushes, lofty old oaks, and beeches. At 
the distance of a hundred paces, on the right, 
was a splendid residence — a large chateau, with 
shining white walls and blue slate roof, sui round- 
ed with spacious out-buildings, and, at some 
little distance, by several small dwellings for the 
workpeople and laborers. The rear of the man- 
sion abutted upon the ruins, in a state of partial 
preservation, of an ancient feudal castle, whose 
walls and towers extended up the hill-side, and 
were lost in the thick woods. 

Far and near, no other building was to be 
seen. The village and church lay on the other 
side of the hill. So much the more smiling and 
kindly lay the broad fields. Pastures, meadows, 
and plowed fields, enlivened by fine cattle, by 
the waving of corn, the many-colored array of 
herbs and meadow flowers ; and, spread over all, 
the quiet of a Sunday afternoon in summer : all 
these alternated with each other, up to the range 
of blue hills which, in the distant, background, 
bounded the whole scene. 

The eyes of the laborer’s wife were not di- 
rected toward this charming alternation of land- 
scape ; her soul did not drink in the still beauty 
of nature, which lay spread out before her. Her 
glance rested upon something quite different; 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


53 


and as it seemed with more than usual inter- 
est 

She turned round into the room, toward her 
husband. “ What can master be about to- 
day ?" she said interrogatively. “ Strange per- 
sons keep coming every moment ; they come one 
by one on foot, and pass through the back gar- 
den door into the house.” 

She received no answer. The laborer kept 
on smoking with the most impassive quietness. 

u There comes another one. He takes just 
the same way.” 

No answer. 

“And there’s another still! But, my good 
man, do just get up.” 

The man remained lying quietly. 

“ There come two together. They are look- 
ing carefully around on all sides, before they go 
through the gate. Husband, ain’t you a bit cu- 
rious ?” 

“ What are the men to me ?” replied he, list- 
lessly. “ They ain’t coming to see me.” 

“ But they are coming to our master.” 

He made no reply. 

“ Husband, how can you keep on lying there 
so quietly ?” 

“ Wife, let me have a little quiet.” 

“ There comes running our master’s servant. 
He’s coming straight toward our house. He 
locks this way. What can he want?” 

She arose in great agitation. Her husband 
did not suffer himself to be disturbed. 

The servant ran hastily into the house. 

“ Frederick, the master ordered me to tell 
you that you must come to the house. There is 
work to do, and he has let almost all the people 
go to the village. You must help us. 

“ It’s Sunday,” said the laborer, without suf- 
fering himself to be discomposed. 

“ So I told master ; but he told me to say to 
you that he would give you double wages ; and 
that you would get drink-money from the strange 
gentlemen.” 

The laborer did not change his posture; he 
merely took the pipe from his mouth, as though 
to assist him in reflecting upon the proposition. 

“ I’d go, husband,” said the wife ; but she 
only ventured the suggestion in a whisper. 

“ But, wife, it’s Sunday.” 

“ But the pay, husband.” 

“If you think best, wife.” 

He raised himself slowly, stretching himself 
more than once. As if half asleep, he reached 
out for his Sunday coat. But before he put it 
on, he asked the servant, in an indifferent tone, 

“ Hard work ?” 

“ You may put on your coat.” 

He put it on with an air of discontent. The 
two men left the house in silence. The servant 
hastened onward toward the mansion ; the laborer 
followed slowly. As he went along he snuffed 
up the fresh scent of the newly mown hay, but 
not to regale himself, but in an experimentaliz- 
ing meditation respecting the weather and the 
consequent labor of the week. When he had 
crone about half the distance, he stopped, looked 


up to the sky in every direction, and turned back 
with somewhat quicker steps toward his own 
dwelling. He went up to the window, and spoke 
to his wife within the house : 

“ Keep a good look-out, wife. There’s going 
to be a storm.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he slowly 
took the way to the mansion, without stopping 
again. The servant was waiting for him at the 
door, and conducted him into the servants’ room. 
The master of the house entered a few minutes 
afterward. 

The owner of the estate was not a nobleman. 
He was a burgher who had bought the property 
| many years before at an auction sale. He was 
a man of some forty-five years of age, of a portly 
but active figure ; and a bachelor. 

“ Frederick,” said he to the laborer, “ you are 
a trusty fellow, and know how to hold your 
tongue. You are not to see or hear any thing 
here.” 

i “ You can trust me, sir,” he answered in a 
tone as though the remark and the reply would 
explain themselves. 

The master nodded his head in assent. 

“ Now then,” he continued, “ shut the doors 
of the house, and look out for the entrance. If 
any body comes, ring the bell in the hall ; I shall 
hear it ; but don’t you speak to any body till I 
come.” 

With these injunctions he left the pair to- 
gether, and crossed the hall into the chambers 
on the other side, passed through some of these, 
and entered a room in the rear of the house. 
Some fifteen persons were seated here about a 
round table. They were men of every time of 
life short of extreme old age. Almost all of 
them were stout and vigorous, from the oldest, 
who might have been some fifty-five years of 
age, down to the youngest, of whom several we're 
still of youthful appearance. There was a strik- 
ing variety in their attire. There were but few 
of them who were not distinguished by something 
peculiar in their style of dress. Some of them 
wore broad sack-like overcoats ; others had close- 
fitting coats with a great deal of braiding and 
lacing ; others had on light unornamented Ger- 
man coats. Some wore their hair very short ; 
others had it combed together into a high peak, 
while others wore it hanging in long locks over 
their shoulders. Some had long beards, while 
! the lips and chins of others were closely shorn. 
Their hats and caps were laid aside. The table 
around which they sat was covered with books, 
papers, and charts. # 

The company, when the master of the house 
entered, were engaged in animated conversa- 
tion. All the dialects of Germany were assem- 
bled, from the soft Hanoverian and Brunswick, 
and the sharp East-Prussian, to the broad hard 
Swabian, and the still broader and harder Swiss. 
Even that easily recognizable dialect was not 
wanting in which strangers from the East of 
Europe are accustomed to pronounce German. 

The master of the house came into their midst : 
he took a seat in silence, and his arrival occa- 


ANNA HAMMER. 


54 

sioned no interruption or change in the conversa- 
tion. But shortly after, one of the older men 
said, in a loud voice : 

“ I think, brothers, we ought to begin our 
day’s work.” 

Tokens of approbation were given from sev- 
eral quarters. 

“ Let Brother Schrader take the chair to-day,” 
said a more youthful voice. 

“ Agreed,” responded several voices. 

A tall spare man, with pale and expressive 
features, took a hammer which lay in the middle 
of the table. He struck a blow with it upon the 
table. A breathless silence reigned through the 
room. 

“Fellow-burghers,” said the President, in a 
full, earnest voice, “ the occasion and objects of 
our present meeting are known to you all. We 
are here, in accordance with the decision of our 
last meeting, to deliberate upon the welfare of 
our country, and to take counsel respecting the 
serious occurrences which have recently taken 
place. Since we last met the times have grown 
more critical, and the events of more import- 
ance. I hope also that the end to be attained — 
the liberation of our country — is also consider- 
ably nearer accomplishment. So much by way 
of a brief introduction, for time seems to press. 
Let every delegate report concerning the dis- 
trict assigned him, and then let us proceed to 
deliberate as to what further is to be done.” 

An old man of calm aspect, who sat on the 
right of the President, was the next to speak. 

“ I have little,” he said, “ to communicate 
from my district. The cold Northeast pro- 
duces colder blood. The great mass of our peo- 
ple lack the German culture, and still more, the 
German heartiness. The country-people are 
hardly at all accessible ; the inhabitants of the 
smaller towns scarcely more so. In the capital 
of my district, as is well known, are the more 
active elements. We are continually attracting 
to ourselves many noble spirits, especially among 
the young. We are extending ourselves among 
the larger and medium towns of the province. 
We are gaining ground, though slowly, even in 
the lesser towns, and here and there in the 
country. Should a blow be decided upon imme- 
diately, my district must not yet be counted 
upon.” 

He ceased. No one made any reply to him. 
A second took the floor. 

“ I have had the largest circle to visit, and 
perhaps the least to report. The German 
population of Austria sleep the sleep of political 
death, under the magic wand of Metternich. 
In Hungary there is indeed an efficient opposi- 
tion ; but it has no vital interest for Germany*. 
It can not be denied that the government takes 
pains to secure the material prosperity of the 
state. A political uprising is not, for a long 
lime yet, to be expected.” 

“Nevertheless,” broke in a third, a short 
under-sized man, with flashing eyes and black 
hair. “ Nevertheless,” he said in a sharp foreign 
dialect, “don’t altogether despise the East. 


Trust me, it may perhaps be the first to bring 
you the political morning, the morning-flush ol 
liberty. In my unhappy land foreign absolutism 
knows no longer any limit. Violence and arbi- 
trary power proceed daily more shamelessly. 
You know the details. The German press even 
can no longer wholly keep silence. The result 
is very simple. Our cause daily gains more 
adherents. The confederates daily band them- 
selves more closely together. Oppression pro- 
duces every day a more pressing necessity for 
freedom ; or, I might say, a more eager desire 
for liberation. A spark, and the magazine is 
blown into the air. The first occasion will find 
us in revolt and struggle. Our organization 
goes on — the more secretly the more vigorously. 
You may count upon its : we count upon you.” 

A general “bravo,” followed his fiery words. 
A pale youth with light flowing locks, dressed 
in a tight German frock, with the collar of his 
shirt turned down, was the fourth who spoke. 
He began slowly, and in a pathetic tone : 

“Saxony is also prepared for a stern and 
bloody contest with the tyrants. Her brave 
people, longing only for freedom, burn with 
desire to break the slavish fetters, and to throw 
them off. Since 1819, her sons who have re- 
turned from the German Universities, have fed 
her people with the milk of freedom, by word 
and by writing, in town and in country. In the 
Saxon land an hundred thousand stand ready — 
they only await the call — the signal — to break 
loose and begin the bloody work. I am com- 
missioned from all sides, to greet you, brothers, 
and to lay it to your hearts, that you do not de- 
lay too long the contest with our oppressors. I 
believe that the time has now come when we 
can again win our freedom. Our princes slum- 
ber in the security of absolutism ; the armies 
are no longer inured to battle. The common 
soldiers, moreover, belong to the people ; and 
the spirit of the officers is only the pale ghost 
of Rosbach and Jena. When the people are 
every where on fire, and brave men and youths 
are ready to put themselves at their head, why 
should we longer hesitate and delay?” 

A considerable portion of those present, espe- 
cially the younger ones, applauded the speaker. 
But. many sat in silence, looking thoughtfully 
before them. 

“ I too,” said another hollow-eyed and long- 
haired young man,” give my vote that we 
should no longer delay. The death-hour of 
tyrants has struck ; in my opinion it should have 
struck long ago. In every German district 
must the men and youth — ” 

“ My friends,” interrupted the President 
Schrader,” let us not forget that at the present 
moment, we must first present our reports. 
What is to be done, can be considered after- 
ward.” 

The young man adapted himself to this 
moderate and friendly admonition, and went on 
less vehemently : 

“ In my district, likewise, a large and well 
appointed body stands ready for the contest. 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


55 


The idea of liberty has every where penetrated 
among the people. The leaders have brought 
this about through unions, which they have 
established throughout the whole land, and by 
writings which have been spread from village to 
village and from house to house. I do not 
venture too much, when I affirm that there are 
in the country a hundred thousand men and 
youths, who await only the word to fall upon 
the tyrants. The signal must be given, or the 
people w r iil grow impatient.” 

“ And on the Rhine ?” asked the President of 
a grave man who had just entered the circle. 

As the person addressed was about to reply, 
three distinct strokes of a bell were heard within 
the house, not far from the room where they 
were sitting. All listened. The master of the 
house quietly arose, and begged them not to be 
alarmed, as the bell merely called him out ; and 
left the room. After a brief interval the man 
who had been addressed by the President re- 
plied : 

“ The Rhine, as you know, my friends, be- 
holds upon its banks many of the German stock, 
and in manifold and various political positions 
and circumstances. I feel bound, as the matter 
relates to the highest and holiest interests — to the 
welfare of our fatherland — not to speak in 
general phrases, but to set before you a picture 
clear, precise, and as accurate as may be. For 
this purpose I must make some distinctions, and 
must refer to many things that have occurred at 
an earlier period.” 

During the pause w T hich he here made, the 
master of the house returned. In his counte- 
nance might be read, if not exactly anxiety, at 
least a certain disquietude. The speaker per- 
ceived this, and was silent. All eyes were 
turned upon the master of the house. 

“ A very unusual, not to say important piece 
of intelligence has been communicated to me,” 
said he. “ A detachment of cavalry thirty 
strong, headed by an officer, has halted before 
the door. 

“ What is their object?” asked the President. 

“ I directed my people to call me, if any 
strange person approached the house, and to 
speak to no one till I came. I was desirous of 
informing you of the visit, before I did any thing 
further.” 

These tidings made a very different impression 
upon different members of the company. A few 
of them stood perfectly composed, the greater 
part consulted in a. state of great excitement, 
and many faces, particularly of those who had 
spoken the most boldly, showed unmistakable 
traces of the utmost consternation. A few of 
them began to fumble after their equipments, 
involuntarily, it would seem. 

“ Soldiers ? Cavalry?” said they to each 
other. “ What can this mean. Have we been 
betrayed? Have we been followed?” 

The host wished to quiet them. ‘‘There 
is no special danger, at all events,” said he. 

He was interrupted by a nod from Schrader. 

“ Let them go, Goltz,” said he in a wffiisper 


to him.” Balischewski, Dorwitz, and I will 
stay.” 

The host nodded acquiescence, and turned 
again to the others. 

“ There is no particular danger,” he went on 
■with what he had been saying. “ The house is 
connected with the ruins by a covered way; 
and an opening from the ruins leads directly into 
the thickest of the wood, which cavalry at least 
can not penetrate. In case of need I have still 
another way of escape. So we are safe even in 
case the house should be beset and surrounded. 
Meanwhile I leave it to you to decide whether 
to break up our deliberations, for to-day, and to 
withdraw seasonably and quietly, so that should 
there be danger afterward, we need not have 
to make our escape in hurry and confusion.” 

“ I would also add,” continued Schrader, 
“another reason : That we have been disturbed 
I once to-day, and under present circumstances, 
shall not be able to resume the discussion in a 
manner perfectly deliberate and worthy of our 
object. My proposal is that we separate at 
once, and if we do not learn that this house is 
watched, that we resume our business here, to- 
morrow at the same hour as we assembled to- 
day. Should this house be surrounded to-mor- 
row, our next meeting shall be called in the 
usual manner.” 

The arguments were conclusive, and no op- 
position was made. The master of the house 
opened a secret door hidden by the tapestry, 
through which he conducted his guests along a 
tolerably spacious arched passage, lighted from 
above by openings in the form of shot-holes, 
which admitted a somewhat scanty light. From 
the passage they passed into the cellar in the 
ruins, where a strong double door, securely fas- 
tened, led into the deepest and densest part of 
the thicket, which covered the entire hill on the 
slope of which the ruins lay. Here he left his 
guests, gave the necessary key to Schrader, and 
returned quietly to the chateau. 

The servant here came to meet him. 

“ I have delayed the officer, as you ordered 
me. I told him you were unwell, and could 
not be disturbed ; that you had sent all your 
people away, except me and another, and had 
ordered me to keep the door shut, and to admit 
nobody unless you gave permission. I asked 
him what he wanted, that I might come and 
tell you.” 

“ Well, what then ?” 

“ He merely wished permission to search the 
court, outbuildings and stalls. He would not 
disturb you, and only desired admission for him- 
self and a single under-officer. The men should 
stay without. I promised to come and tell you.” 

“ Did he say nothing of the object of the pro- 
posed search ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ That’s singular. However, let him in. Let 
him go any where he pleases, only not into this 
room and my other chamber. The pretext of 
my illness will be a sufficient excuse. But don’t 
I show any embarrassment.” 


56 


ANNA HAMMER. 


The servant went out. In a short time the j The idea thus gets fast hold of him ; and the 
three trusty confederates, Schrader, Balischewski idea, not bare example, impels him to action 


the Polish delegate, and Dorwitz the delegate 
from the Rhine, returned to the room, through 
the tapestried door. 

“ First and foremost, friend Goltz, how is it 
about the military ?” asked Schrader. 

Goltz gave him the required information. 

“ What do you imagine to be the object of 
this singular visit ?” 

“ I am not clear about that. There are al- 
ways soldiers here about the borders, but none 
have ever before come near my house. I have 
not the slightest acquaintance with the officers. 
Nothing special, to my knowledge, has taken 
place in the neighborhood. I ; ve exercised all 
my faculties about it, to no purpose.” 

“Nevermind. Are we safe here ?” 

“ Perfectly so.” 


Do not, my friend, disparage the German for 
that ; on the contrary, for my own part, I dis- 
cover a great advantage in this character. The 
actions of the German, thus occasioned, are hardy 
fruits — the fruits of sincere conviction, and of un- 
mistakable confidence founded upon convictions ; 
they are not the transitory result of an intoxica- 
tion suddenly arising and from the mere force of 
example, as suddenly disappearing. I might il- 
lustrate this by a comparison between our strong 
old Rhine wines, and the fleeting foam of cham- 
pagne, but I do not affect such figures.” 

“Meanwhile, I have something to add,” said 
Dorwitz. “ The difference between the char- 
I acter of the Germans, on the one hand, and that 
of the Poles and French, on the other, has been, 
on the whole correctly pointed out. We are not 


“ Then to our work. I owe you an explan- so easily inspired by example, as by our own 
ation why I am glad of what has happened. The inner convictions. But yet we must acknowl- 


reason is simply this, that there are too many 
enthusiasts and weaklings in our Society. 1 have 
long perceived that it will be difficult to bring 
these men to a satisfactory decision. We four 
must agree beforehand among ourselves ; thus 
only can we deal with them, and make our pre- 
ponderance over them available.” 

“You are right,” answered Dorwitz. “It is 
a great misfortune for the cause of our country, 
that there is among us far more good-will than 
judgment and discretion, and that real strength 
which is founded upon judgment and discretion. 


edge, that in all our efforts, since the War of 
Liberation, we have lacked in great and exalted 
examples. No great man, no man whose name 
has won a decided significance in our country, 
has come forward with enthusiasm for his father- 
land, not even in word or writing, much less in 
actual deeds. Our great men hold themselves 
too much back. They are, so to speak, too Ger- 
man ; and that is a crime in them.” 

“ I hardly think this can be admitted,” replied 
Schrader. “ I do not deny that there has been 
this holding back ; but may it not be the result 


We have at command much beautiful enthusiasm; of a perfectly correct calculation?” 


bold and even desperate enthusiasts; but on the 
whole it does more harm than good.” 

“ You Germans are singular beings,” said the 
Pole, Balischewski, “you think that even coun- 
try and liberty are only to be saved by calm, cold 


“Calculation, again!” laughed the Pole. 

“ Certainly ; but a calculation which here 
seems perfectly indispensable. If the character 
of the Germans is as I have described.it, in 
which description you agree, and if the ideas of 


calculation and speculation, and so you condemn Freedom and nationality have not yet come home 
enthusiasm. But what is love of one’s country, to the consciousness of the great mass of the peo- 
what is love of liberty, if not enthusiasm? No pie, what is the use of enthusiasm, of the most 
one who is not inspired by the idea of country brilliant examples of single individuals, however 
and liberty, will ever save his country; and a high they may stand, or however renowned the 
people who are not inspired by this idea will names they bear? It would be as useless as 
never become a nation — will never become powder that flashes in the pan of a gun. 1 re- 
free.” peat, the German people must be prepared, must 

“ That is in favor of our side of the argument,” be made receptive of the idea. The masses at 


replied Schrader. “ The inspiration of country 
and of liberty has not yet penetrated into all the 
strata of the German people. The masses are 
not capable of conceiving of it. They must be 
prepared for it, in the first place, must be made 
accessible to it; and this, owing to the peculiar 


present are not prepared.” 

“Schrader,” .said Goltz, “seems to me to be 
so far right, that he just defends that which we 
have all been doing for some years past. Our 
efforts have been directed to indoctrinating the 
people, in a variety of ways, with a sense of the 


character of the German people, can not be done annihilation of their rights, of their enslavement. 


by the enthusiasm of individuals. You Poles, 
like the French, have blood quick and excitable 
enough to be aroused by the enthusiasm and ex- 
ample of individuals, and thus to be urged on 
to action. There is, to speak candidly, friend 
Balischewski. just enough of the imitative faculty 
in you for that. All that — at least to any prac- 
tical extent, goes just for nothing with the Ger- 
man. The ^"rman is of a more phlegmatic 
temperament, lie is not excited by example. 
It sets him ralher to thinking and calculating. 


of their oppression by princes and by aristoc- 
racy, bureaucracy, and priestdom ; and by these 
means, certainly not rapid ones, to inspire them 
with the idea of freedom. We have indeed one 
great example in our eye, one great event, I 
mean, which has startled the world. But such an 
event we shall not reproduce by our calculated 
and calculating preparations ; for the events of 
history are always and evermore other than the 
cool human understanding has counted upon. 
But a great event always impels the spirit and 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


57 


oftentimes even a whole people, centuries in ad- 
vance at once.” 

“ Not always,” said Schrader, shaking his 
head. “ But, meanwhile, let us not dispute 
without some definite aim. Let us advise what 
is to be done immediately — for the immediate 
present will be very grave and eventful.” 

They took their seats. At the same moment 
the servant came to the door, and announced that 
the military had drawn off; the officer having 
merely cast an eye into the barns, stables, and 
wagon-houses, and left, without saying a word. 
After this interruption, Schrader continued : 

“ According to all the symptoms of the times; 
according to the intelligence in the public prints ; 
and according to the reports of our trusty friends 
in foreign countries, a great catastrophe is im- 
pending, which if it does not at once give us our 
liberty, will, nevertheless, bring us considerably 
nearer to it. The general historical evidence 
of this fact is the fearful height to which the 
insolence of absolutism and the oppression of 
the people has now arisen in almost all Europe. 
It can not long remain at its highest point ; 
what has gone up must come down : the rule 
is that it falls, and when it falls its plunge is 
the more sudden and overwhelming, the loftier 
was its elevation. The suppression of the lib- 
erties of the people of Europe has reached, not 
its highest, perhaps, but a very high point. 
The position of our own country we are all 
acquainted with. The Diet of the Confederacy, 
the Carlsbad Resolutions, the Central Commis- 
sion of Inquiry, the restraints upon writing, 
upon speech, upon associations, hold Germany 
in a servitude such as our history has never 
before known. The life of the people is bound 
by the princes in iron fetters. Metternich and 
the Holy Alliance triumph in the success of 
their efforts. But, alas ! as has been said 
already, the mass of the people is not aware 
of this success, and does not feel the fearful 
weight of its fetters. This is the state of affairs 

c5 . 

in our own country. The history of the nations 
of Europe is of the same tendency. A political 
unity pervades the whole. The French people 
are one of the most powerful members of this 
body. For a long time it has given the impulse 
to the political development of the other nations. 
In France absolutism has now reached its high- 
est point. Its downfall is therefore most immi- 
nent. The blindness of the King and of his 
Minister, Polignac. is as complete as it is in- 
comprehensible. Even foreign absolute mon- 
archs warn them, seeing, perhaps, that it will 
bring about a state of affairs in that kingdom 
which must exert an influence beyond the limits 
of France. These warnings are unheeded. 
According to the representations of our agents, 
the most extreme measures are soon to be put 
in execution. The newly elected Chamber, 
which has not yet met, is to be dissolved, and a 
new election is to be ordered, in order to secure 
a more subservient Chamber ; a new ordonnance 
respecting the press will then be promulgated. 
But in France the people are awake to their 1 


freedom. The leaders are selected, and have 
made preparations. The organization is most 
remarkable. On the day when the proposed 
ordonnances make their appearance, the popu- 
lar tempest will break forth. The victory is 
not a matter of doubt. I will pass rapidly over 
the minor European states, and come to En- 
gland, which, next to France, exerts the great- 
est influence over the history of Europe, and 
particularly over that of Germany. Italy groans 
under the bondage of Austria. Spain can not 
free herself from the yoke of a tyrant, as inso- 
lent as he is weak and treacherous, who has by 
means of the Pragmatic Sanction committed 
another breach of faith. Portugal lies in the 
agonies of death beneath a new Atilla. The 
easily excitable, fiery spirit of these nations 
may awake at any moment. It will awake 
when aroused by another movement in Europe. 
The stern spirit of the times has even laid its 
hold upon haughty Albion. Wellington’s selfish 
and contemptible administration has gladly given 
a disgraceful impulse to absolutism throughout 
Europe. In England, also, absolutism has at- 
tained the highest point which it can reach 
there. The Opposition is straining every nesve, 
and a complete change of administration, and of 
the system of government, is impending. Our 
agents send in the most satisfactory accounts. 
The dissolution of George the Fourth is not far 
off. His successor, the Duke of Clarence, favors 
the Libera] party. With his accession the power 
of Wellington is broken, and the Holy Alliance 
has lost its strongest support. If a decisive 
stroke is made simultaneously upon the Conti- 
nent, a great advance will be made in the cause 
of freedom, perhaps still more : and, this blow 
struck, as I said — ” 

“ Why not your victory ?” eagerly asked the 
Pole, Balischewski. “I assure you, my friends, 
of victory,” he went on, “for you, for ourselves; 
for Poland, my fatherland, and for Germany, 
your fatherland. I have heretofore been obliged 
to be silent concerning many things, which I 
can and must confide to this trusted circle. The 
conspiracy has spread throughout all Poland, 
and has reached far into Russia. It is fully 
organized ; the leaders are in the closest com- 
munication with each other ; the people are 
armed ; connections have been formed with 
foreign countries, with the Liberal party in 
France and in England. It is fitting that the 
bomb of Revolution should first be exploded in 
Paris, but at the same instant a blow in Warsaw 
will be struck ; and my people will conquer, for 
they will contend for their nationality, for their 
honor — they will conquer their tyrants. Do you 
arise at the same time in Germany, and victory 
can not be doubtful : but this time the Polish 
weapons will prove invincible, even without the 
aid of Germany.” 

“Here is the most pressing question,” re- 
marked Schrader ; “ whether the German peo- 
ple can and should rise, immediately upon the 
insurrection which must, necessarily, soon occur 
in Paris.” 


58 


ANNA HAMMER. 


1 


“ They must ! They must !” cried the Pole. 
“ For this once, lay aside your cool calcula- 
tions .’ 5 

“I, too,” said Dorwitz, “am of the opinion 
lhat we have borne the fettex\s of the tyrants 
long enough to be now able to throw them off. 
That a terrible and bloody revolution is at hand 
in Europe, who can doubt? It will rage all 
around Germany. Why should the German 
people alone remain quiet in their chains?” 

“ Because their time has not yet come,” re- 
plied Schrader, with emphasis. 

“ The bell in the hall is ringing,” said the 
hoss. leaving the room. 

He remained out for some time, and the con- 
versation stood still during his absence. A cer- 
tain surprise and disquiet which his countenance, 
on his return, expressed, did not suffer them to 
go on in the discussion. A curiosity had been 
awakened in his guests, which he went on to 
satisfy. 

“The rising storm,” said he, “has brought 
us a new visit, which can not be got rid of, 
like the last. A gentleman and lady ask to be 
received until the storm is over.” 

“.And why should you be disturbed at that? 
for your eyes certainly betray some anxiety.” 

“ Not exactly anxiety, though I will not deny 
that a somewhat uncomfortable suspicion has 
come over me.” 

“ Of what sort ?” 

“ In connection with the recent visit of the 
military, the thought has come involuntarily into 
my mind about the theft of the diamonds and 
flight of the princess, in the neighboring state.” 

“ Do you know any thing special of this 
sandalous piece of court history?” 

“ It is enveloped in the most profound mys- 
tery ; and I know only the facts which every 
body knows. The jewels of the Crown Princess, 
worth more than a million, have been stolen in 
a most incomprehensible manner. At the same 
time, the Princess Amelia has disappeared, and 
with her a young American, who has had for 
some time access to the court circles; and no 
trace of her has yet been discovered.” 

“ The affair is not then so incomprehensible, 
after all,” remarked Dorwitz. 

“ That’s a mere chance — an accidental co- 
incidence,” interrupted the Pole, Balischewski, 
with his usual earnestness. The culprit must 
be sought in quite another direction. Some 
very suspicious fellows were seen near the castle 
early on Ihe morning of the theft.” 

“ A third version, still, would be the most 
probable,” remarked Schrader, with his cus- 
tomary reserved decision. “ In the mean while, 
Goltz, how did you light upon this combina- 
tion?” 

“ Who can give an account of his vague sus- 
picions ?” 

“ Have you seen your visitors?” 

“ No ! They come by extra-post, in an ele- 
gant traveling carriage. I have had them shown 
to a chamber, and given into the charge of my 
intelligent servant.” 


“ It is nevertheless very singular, that the 
officer should have just searched the stalls and 
coach-houses only, as though he was in quest 
of an equipage. Do any of you know the fugi- 
tive Princess?” 

No one had ever seen her. 

“ Any one is secure with you, at all events ?” 
asked Schrader, in a somewhat anxious tone. 

“ I pledge myself for all.” 

“ Then let us return to our deliberations.” 

The conversation which had been interrupted 
was then continued, while the tempest which 
had in the mean time risen black and heavy in 
the heavens, began to discharge itself in wind, 
rain, and thunder. Schrader was the first to 
speak. 

“ The blow will doubtless,” he said, “ be 
struck in Paris immediately. The people will 
be successful. Whether they will know how to 
use their victory is another question. Judging 
from the intelligence I have received, there is 
too much reason to apprehend that they will be- 
come the sacrifice of an intrigue, of which the 
secret snares have been already laid. There 
will then be simply a change of rulers, not of 
the government. Meanwhile, at all events, a 
successful revolution will have been effected. 
The revolution will also break out in Poland. 
If it is not successful, there will at least be a 
long and determined struggle. This twofold 
example will very probably arouse other nations. 
The question for us is : What shall Germany 
do? What position shall Germany hold to 
these struggles, in the midst of these strug- 
gles ?” 

“ Can you designate that as a matter of ques- 
tion ?” cried Dorwitz. “ I agree with Bali- 
schewski : this time Germany must not calculate 
— she must act. Let us, for once, run the risk. 
Should Poland be at first successful, must she 
not in the end be irretrievably lost by the three- 
fold enemies, the Holy Alliance, unless Germany 
rises at the same time?” 

“ I fear she must. But my own fatherland 
is higher and dearer to me than Poland. More- 
over Poland can not free Germany, but the 
liberation of Germany involves that of Poland. 
What would Germany gain, at the present time, 
by such an insurrection ? Let us not deceive 
ourselves in the matter. I have already said, 
and you have agreed with me, that the German 
people, as a whole, or a majority of them, or 
even a considerable minority, are not yet ripe 
for freedom. There can therefore be no revolu- 
tion, there can only be riots and tumults. The 
spirit is there, but it is asleep. It must in the 
first place, to a considerable extent at least, be 
awakened. Besides, leaders are wanting. Yon 
have granted me that. Name to me a single 
great man of whom you can yourselves antici- 
pate that he could place himself at the head of 
a revolution. Furthermore, matters have not 
reached that point of despotism, of which wq 
have been speaking. Absolutism has certainly 
attained a giddy height, but has not reached its 
summit. The German people must be still 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


more enslaved, before they will overthrow abso- 
lutism, before it win for itself an enduring free- 
dom. You look at me with astonishment, my 
friends. Ask the Pole if in his country the 
follies, the violence, the wantonness, the bar- 
barity of the oppressor have not cut more 
deeply into the flesh of the people, than in the 
German States.” 

The Pole nodded a silent assent. 

“ The German people, also, must suffer more, 
in order to become entirely free. The Holy 
Alliance and its supporters and servants will 
soon look out for that. Then first can we attain 
what we now lack. I mean unity. It is either 
the great crime or the great misfortune of the 
German people that, by means of the interests, 
the contentions, and dissensions of their princes, 
they have suffered themselves to be split up into 
as many parts and fragments, as there are and 
have been princes and princely families, with 
various conflicting interests in their afflicted 
country. A German people exists only in 
name. The various stocks are no longer chil- 
dren of one father and one mother ; they are no 
longer brother-races ; they stand confronting 
each other like a number of hostile, or indiffer- 
ent tribes. While such a state of things exists, 
no revolution from which any good results can 
come is possible in Germany. There can be no 
freedom of the people in Europe, without a 
combination of the different nations ; and how 
can a German freedom gain a vigorous life, with- 
out a union of the Germanic races ? Cast your 
eyes over Germany, and answer these questions 
for yourselves. Will Prussia hasten to the aid 
of Austria, should an effort for freedom be made 
in Vienna? Or, on the other hand, w’ould 
Austria go to Berlin to help Prussia? Will the 
Bavarians aid the Saxons; the Wurtemburghers 
assist the Hanoverians; or will even the Hes- 
sians help the Brunswickers, should any one of 
these wish to break their chains ? You imagine, 
perhaps, that, such support is not indispensable, 
that a combination would be sufficient, by virtue 
of which, whenever a single German state 
should rise, all the others should rise at the 
same time, and win their freedom. This would, 

I admit, be sufficient, and it is just this that we 
have been for years paving the way for, and 
striving to reach. But to how many illusions 
have we here exposed ourselves ! How far 
have we succeeded, with all our efforts ; and 
how far can we succeed ? Is it at all possible 
to bring about, at the same moment, thirty revo- 
lutions, great and small? Is it possible, among 
such diverse conditions and relations of rulers 
and of ruled ? You would have hardly three 
revolutions ready on the same day, in all Ger- 
many, though you had every thing never so 
fairly and smoothly arranged, from North to 
South, from East to West. Think of just this 
point : That something more than the simple 
willing it is necessary to make a revolution. 
Time and opportunity are necessary, favor and 
occasion, fate and fortune, wind and weather 
even. And if you could not effect three, to say 


r.n 

O . t 

nothing of thirty, revolutions in Germany at the 
same time, what would be the fate of those that 
were attempted ? They would be crushed at 
once. The princes are more united than the 
people. And even though they were before 
deadly enemies, when it came to be a question 
of opposition to the people, they would unite 
like one man. Those whom the revolutions 
had spared, would rush to the support of those 
who were attacked, and would draw their people 
along with them, before they would have time 
to reflect whither and against whom they were 
going. And so, summoned or unsummoned, 
each German prince would fight for the Ger- 
man princes, but the German people would fight 
against the German people. A civil war would 
arise in Germany, in which one people would 
fight against the freedom of another, and against 
its own, till finally, throughout all Germany the 
young freedom would be again destroyed, and 
the German people reduced again to subjection, 
reduced to slavery with their own blood. This 
would be the fate of Germany, should you now 
undertake these German revolutions. No, no, 
you must wait until a single revolution through- 
out all Germany is possible ; and this will only 
be possible, when the German people have grown 
together, almost like a single man, against their 
tyrants. That this can be the case, the German 
people must be much more and much longer 
outraged and enslaved.” 

He ceased, and his auditors remained sitting 
in silence and in earnest thought. His words 
appeared to have expressed a truth which they 
could not deny, and which made a deep impres- 
sion upon them. Dorwitz was the first to break 
the silence. 

“ Your views,” said he, “ are all the more 
gloomy, that they postpone the freedom of Ger- 
many to an almost unapproachable distance. 
What you say of the obstacle that exists, in the 
want of union among the states, seems to me 
to be incontrovertible — at least I have at the 
present moment no argument to oppose to it. 

I must furthermore confess, that our poor coun- 
try seems to me to be, on this account, in a con- 
dition extremely unpropitious. But how, with- 
out a revolution, shall this very want of union 
between the German States be obviated ?” 

“I, too,” replied Schrader, ‘‘am not clear 
upon that point. In the mean while I fall back 
upon our enemies themselves. The German 
princes hold together only when it is against 
the people. For the rest, each one of them 
looks in the first place merely at the interests 
of his own dynasty. Now, let us trust to the 
law of nature, that holds good in the water and 
on land, among fishes, quadrupeds, and men — 
that the greater devours the less ; and we may 
then trust our princes that in this point they 
will work most effectually for our freedom. 
Common sufferings and a common oppression 
will have the strongest tendency to make us 
one people — a people consciously one.” 

“Friends,” said Goltz, “I have listened with 
the utmost attention to your remarks. They 


60 


ANNA HAMMER. 


have produced this impression upon my mind : 
You seem to me to be contradictory in your 
measures. If you did not wish a revolution to 
take place for a couple of generations, why 
have you been endeavoring all the while to 
effect a revolution ? Why have you already 
entered into organizations ?” 

“ Shall I remind you, friend Goltz, of the 
Scriptural parable of the Wise and the Foolish 
Virgins ? How often in the world’s history do 
events occur that put to shame all human cal- 
culation ? Such are possible in the history of 
Germany. Ought they to find us unprepared ? 
Aside from such, we gain one thing certainly 
by our preparation and organization, and that is 
a firmer and stronger union among the people. 
And, to be sincere, this is my sole immediate 
object in all my efforts. But this object is a 
very important one, and one which we should 
at no moment overlook. And it was to direct 
your special attention to this point that. I was 
induced to call our present meeting. The ele- 
ments which are at our disposal, even those 
young enthusiasts — unpracticed and unacquaint- 
ed with the world and with life as they are — 
can be of great service to this object. They 
are brave, and in them glows a noble fire that 
will always animate and warm the people. 
Animation, training, preparation — that is our 
purpose.” 

“And if,” asked Balischewski, “if the bloody 
battle of revolution should forthwith go on around 
your Germany, what would then be your pur- 
pose ? To look on ? To fold your hands upon 
your bosom ?” 

“ To look on, to sympathize, and to strengthen.” 

“ Miserable egotists! To look on when your 
brothers are led to the scaffold. To suffer a 
noble nation to be annihilated, just to furnish 
you an example, from which you can deduce a 
dubious moral for your own use and advant- 
age !” 

“ Brother Pole, there lies in what I have 
said, something very dispiriting for you and for 
your poor people ; but do not therefore be un- 
just toward us. Consider the whole course of 
history. You will every where see that one 
people has apparently served simply as a means 
for the good of another people ; but this has 
been only apparent. All nations constitute but 
one whole. Every separate people is but a 
part of the whole ; and what any one offers 
as a sacrifice, it sacrifices for that whole — for 
itself inclusively. In universal history, no peo- 
ple can be looked upon as a means to accom- 
plish the ends of another people. Every people 
contributes its part to the development of the 
entire human race. If in the contest which is 
to ensue, Poland is to see the remainder of her 
national life destroyed, this will not take place 
merely for the honor and advantage of Germany 
— not merely that Germany alone may take an 
example, and gather strength therefrom for her 
own liberation. No ; it will take place that 
Poland herself may also, and so much the sooner 
and more vigorously, arise again to freedom and 


nationality ; and indeed, by means of Germany. 
Yes, you will be overcome in the contest that 
awaits you ; I fear it ; I am sure of it. You 
will be overcome just on account of the weak- 
ness of Germany — perhaps the ti'eachery ; but 
you will be overcome, because it is necessary 
for your own selves. And so fight ; in the 
name of God and freedom, fight the terrible 
battle which will enrich your fields with the 
blood of your noblest men and youths.” 

“ We will fight the battle.” 

“And we,” said Dorwitz, “shall we not 
take part in the battle for freedom, fought by 
the nations around us?” 

“ We shall not. Our plan must be to hold 
back, should isolated conflicts arise even in our 
own fatherland — to hold back the people them- 
selves — useless blood must not be shed ;* — let us 
labor for that in our meeting on the morrow.” 

“ Taking all into consideration,” said Goltz, 
“ we are nowise prepared for an immediate 
contest ; and a new revolution is at hand in 
Europe, in France in particular. Those hun- 
dreds of thousands, who stand ready for the con- 
test, according to the reports of our enthusiastic 
friends, in the districts of Germany, would, in 
case of an actual contest, shrink to a little hand- 
ful ; and this little handful, drifting about with- 
out plan or guidance, would harm rather than 
profit the good cause. I am therefore in favor 
of Schrader’s views.” 

“ So much the more,” said Dorwitz, “ must 
it be our endeavor to furnish capable leaders to 
the people. But whence are they to be taken?” 

“ We must search them out,” answered 
Schrader ; “ among the people themselves must 
we search them out and train them. This too 
is an important part of our calling. How have 
we, who form a portion, though a concealed one, 
of the leaders arrived at our position ? Those 
men sought and found, and trained us, with 
whom we for a long time worked in common, 
whose fate is now, alas, the dungeon, if their 
bones have not already mouldered : Arnstein, 
Vorhoff, Horberg. Germany is. not poor in 
available strength. Even among the men and 
youths who composed our meeting to-day, will 
there be found many a capable head, many a 
strong guiding arm, when time brings the hour 
of peril. We must only bring them out. And 
so,” he concluded, “ our determination, as to 
the chief matter, is formed.” 

“ You mentioned,” said Dorwitz, “ the names 
of three very noble men. Have you never 
learned any thing certain of their fate ?” 

“ I know nothing at all ; I only know the 
scandalous life of the wife of poor Horberg.” 

“I accidentally discovered Vorhoff’s family,” 
said Balischewski. “ They are provided for.” 

“ It is my endeavor.” added Goltz, “ to alle- 
viate the fate of these three noble men. as you 
well know. In the morning I shall receive de- 
finite information in respect to the measures 
which I have taken. Hitherto, I am sorry to 
say, they have been without results. I have 
introduced agents into almost all the prisons 


THE CONSPIRATORS. 


and fortresses of Germany. But no traces of 
them have as yet been found.” 

44 Certainly, ” remarked Schrader, u Such men 
of the people are more dangerous to tyrants 
than armies. They will use every means to 
keep every trace of them from the sight of the 
people, should they be alive, especially. But, 
farewell till morning, my friends. The storm 
is nearly over. The new freshness of tree and 
field invites me into the open air. Dorwitz 
will accompany me.. We will meet again in 
the morning. But, friend Goltz, one thingr ; — 
take care that your new visitors yonder do not 
fall into the hands of their pursuers. I have a 
presentiment, and I feel that I must take a special 
interest in the lovers, for it may perhaps be 
they. — Farewell.” 

He went out with Dorwitz ; Balischewski ac- 
companied them, but only to escort them, and 
then returned. He was to remain with his 
friend Goltz. 

The master of the house went to his apart- 
ment, the windows of which overlooked the 
court. Here the stranger postillion was busy, 
harnessing the horses to the traveling carriage, 
in which the last arrived guests had come. The 
storm had entirely passed, and the skies had al- 
ready begun to clear up. The postillion went 
slowly about his work. A tall, slender young 
man. in a traveling dress, which bespoke some- 
thing more than an ordinary traveler, came out 
from the house, and appeared to be hurrying the 
postillion. The young man went back into the 
house. It seemed somewhat singular to the 
master of the house that a couple, who from the 
appearance of the young man seemed to belong 
to the upper classes, should be traveling with- 
out attendants. While he was pondering this 
in his mind, his servant came into the room, his 
face expressing some apprehension. 

“ Sir,” said he, “ the military are coming 
again, riding np to the house on various sides — 
by the garden, behind the barns, and up to the 
main entrance. It seems as though they wish- 
ed to surround the whole house.” 

“ Do the strangers know it ?” asked the 
master quickly. 

“ I think not.” 

Goltz paced up and down the room, seeming 
unable to come to any definite conclusion. At 
this moment the stranger entered the room with 
quick steps, and a countenance expressing, if not 
exactly alarm, a considerable uneasiness. He 
went directly up to Goltz. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said he, “ for speaking to 
you without much circumlocution. I have the 
honor to address the master of this house?” 

Goltz bowed in assent, but without speak- 
ing. 

“ 1 have just perceived,” continued the young 
man, “ that your house is surrounded by the 
military. The reason of this is altogether un- 
known to me. But in the mean time, the lady 
with whom I am travelling and myself are very 
peculiarly situated. It would occasion us great 
inconvenience to encounter the military. Might 


61 

I beg of you, if it is at all in your power, to give 
us a place of concealment?” 

Goltz appeared instantly to have made the 
decision against which he had been struggling 
the moment before. He replied in a lighter tone. 

“ Do not be at all alarmed. You are here 
perfectly safe from discovery. Only have the 
kindness to conduct the lady hither. The serv- 
ant will bring your luggage, in order to re- 
move all traces of your presence. 

“ But our carriage?” 

“Have you any thing in it?” 

“ Every thing is above.” 

“The carriage is safe then, under my charge.” 

The stranger was about to say something, but 
seemed suddenly to have made up his mind that 
it was unnecessary ; and left the room, follow- 
ed by the servant. In a few minutes he return- 
ed with his fair companion upon his arm. If 
the young man was of elegant appearance and 
manners, his companion was not less a beauti- 
ful young woman, tall, and with an imposing 
air of self possession in her whole demeanor. 

Goltz conducted them from the apartment 
into the room in which the meeting had just 
been held. There he stopped for a moment to 
reflect, casting an inquiring look upon the 
couple. It seemed as though he was debating 
whether he should intrust a secret of no small 
importance respecting his house to a stranger, 
of whose vex'y name he was ignorant. His 
scruples seemed at last to be removed — par- 
tially at least. He opened the door in the hang- 
ings, and then the iron door behind it ; and con- 
ducted hi^ guests into the vaulted passage, but 
no further. Excusing himself for being unable 
to give them better accommodations, but at the 
same time assuring them that there was no 
possible danger of detection, he asked them 
to wait there until his return. The servant 
brought their traveling apparatus, and such con- 
veniences as were practicable were provided. 
Shutting the door behind him, Goltz, accom- 
panied by the servant left them, and returned to 
the sitting-room. The door was pushed violent- 
ly open, and Balischewski entered. 

“ An adventure !” cried he in a jesting tone. 
“ We are surrounded by the military.” 

“ I know that already. Our friends — ?” 

“ Are in safety. I am, as you know, always 
safe with my passport. But your guests ?” 

“ Are likewise safe.” 

The servant, according to order, had opened 
the doors, and admitted the military. The offi- 
cer in command was conducted, at his request, 
to the master of the house. 

“ I know but too well, sir,” said Goltz, by 
way of salutation to the officer, “that we live 
in a country in which the inviolability of one’s 
house is not very much regarded. But I hope 
you will have the kindness to account for this, 
to say the least, very singular and unexpected 
entrance into my dwelling.” 

“Sir,” answered the officer, not without 
politeness, “ the soldier has simply to obey 
his orders. Here are mine.” 


62 


ANNA HAMMER. 


He handed a paper to Goltz, who read it, and 
handed it back, saying : “ Your orders are per- 
fectly regular, and you must act in accordance 
with them. I shall demand satisfaction from 
your superiors. What do you wish of me ?” 

“ Sir, I am in pursuit of two fugitives, a gen- 
tleman and a lady. I have certain intelligence 
that they have been admitted here. I beg of 
you to deliver the fugitives to me ; otherwise 
you will impose upon me the unpleasant neces- 
sity of making a strict search for them.” 

“ Sir,” replied Goltz, somewhat excited, “ if 
I have given reception and shelter within my 
house to any body, you may rely upon it, it has 
been done in perfect accordance with the law 
of the land ; and furthermore, you may rest as- 
sured that a man of honor will not turn traitor 
to the rites of hospitality. You can perfoum 
your function ?” 

“ My function?” exclaimed the officer, in an 
offended tone ; but he perceived instantly that 
occasion had been given, to say the least, for 
the provocation ; and went on in a more moder- 
ate tone : “ My duty compels me to proceed to 
the step which I have already signified. But 
allow me previously to say a few words to con- 
vince you that my entrance into your house was 
not without the most immediate and urgent rea- 
son. The persons of whom I am in pursuit are 
traveling in a carriage with extra horses. Their 
traces have been followed to this house. Not 
only is the carriage itself a witness, which is 
now standing in the court; but not far from 
your mansion is the dwelling of one of your 
laborers. His wife testifies that she saw the 
travelers enter your house.” 

He stopped, and looked inquiringly at Goltz, 
who asked him : 

“ Are you waiting for an answer?” 

“ You will acknowledge that this circumstance 
speaks against you.” 

“ Against me, sir ! You assume a tone as 
though I was under examination by you.” 

“ You will at least allow me to put to you 
the question, Who came to you in that car- 
riage ?” 

“ Sir, it is my pleasure to answer you that 
question. Then learn, that in that carriage 
there came to me — a visitor.” 

The officer bit his lip slightly, and continued : 

“ Still further, sir, the same woman informs 
me that you have this day received visits from 
several persons who have entered the house 
secretly by the back door. The woman was 
particularly struck by that.” 

“ I have had visitors, sir. The woman saw 
perfectly correctly.” 

“ You see, sir, that I have received accurate 
information — I beg you again, to spare me a 
search which is very disagreeable to me.” 

“ It is no fault of mine.” 

“ Then you compel me — ” 

U I compel you, sir?” 

“ 1 am very sorry, but I must begin.” 

“ You see, that I have been for some time 
aware of that.” 


“ May I ask you to do me the favor to ac- 
company me?” 

“ My servant will conduct you. John, the 
keys hang there on the wall. Conduct the 
Major wherever he orders you.” 

The officer gave an angry look, but again 
checked himself. He then went out with the 
servant. 

“Goltz,” said Balischewski, “I would like to 
say something to you.” 

“ Say on.” 

“Friend Goltz,” went on the Pole, with his 
sharp Polish accent, “ if you had treated me as 
you did that officer there, I would have run my 
dagger through your body!” 

“Friend Balischewski,” replied Goltz, “had 
you come on the same business as that officer 
did, I should have treated you as I did him. even 
if you had run your dagger through my body.” 

“ Very right. But why does he suffer him- 
self to be used for a police-officer?” 

“ He will suffer himself to be used like any 
other bailiff. Our princes are on the high road 
to turn their soldiers into the servitors of the 
olden time. On the one hand, they overwhelm 
them with outward pomp, so as, on the other 
hand, to make mere machinery of them to carry 
out their arbitrary ends. They are thus in the 
direct way to induce them to barter true inward 
honor, for outward display ; and in place of 
honor to implant in them a thorough unscrupu- 
lousness.” 

“ Just as in Russia. But yet the Russian 
soldiers fight well.” 

“ Are you Poles afraid of them?” 

“ No ; by Heaven, we are not. In the long 
run no mere machines can hold good against 
enthusiasm and spirit.” 

“Well! But yet I beg you not to confound 
our soldiei's altogether with the Russians. There 
is a soul in our soldiers, in the Russian none. 
In our soldiers it is repressed and suppressed. 
This will some time be fearfully avenged, as 
will be every repression of the human soul.” 

The military had. in the mean time, taken 
possession of the interior of the building, while 
they searched through it, chamber by chamber, 
closet by closet. 

“Where have you bestowed the fugitives?” 
asked the Pole. 

“ In the secret passage. But I have not. 
however, shown them the w T ay out. In spite 
of my own and Schrader’s suspicions in respect 
to them, some scruple restrained me from in- 
trusting to them entirely the whole secret of 
my house. They are, however, safe, at all 
events. My conduct toward the Major ha? 
had this effect at least, it has made him ashamed 
of his business. He will not, therefore, even in 
the presence of the servant, make so strict a 
search. I am confident that he will not even 
discover the tapestry door. But if he should 
discover that, he will not, at all events, see the 
iron door. My old John will lead him awav by 
a curious turning to the eellar.” 

“ You are confident of that?” 


STILL LIFE. 


63 


“ If the worst comes to the worst, the way 
by the ruins remains to me to conduct them 
away.” 

“ I am satisfied.” 

The officer, after a while, returned with the 
servant. He had discovered nothing, and was 
offended. He took his leave with a very few 
words, and soon left the place, with his whole 
troop. Goltz went to set his guests at liberty 
from their restraint. He told them what had 
taken place, and informed them of the direction 
which the military had taken. The countenances 
of both cleared up. 

“ Our passage is clear,” said the young man, 
with an unmistakable lightening of the heart. 
The lady assented in a not less joyful tone. 

The directions for their departure were soon 
given, and they departed. 

As soon as the carriage had rolled out of the 
gates, Balischewski, who had preserved an un- 
broken silence ever since the couple had emerged 
from the passage, broke out into a laugh, almost 
malicious. 

“ Friend Goltz,” said he, :c do you knowwhom 
you have been harboring, and whom you have 
saved ? Oh, that you should so honor fhe rites 
of friendship, and reward virtue ! Your guests 
were Madame von Horberg, and her friend , 
Number Two, the Prince Amberg !” 

“ The devil !” 


CHAPTER VII. 

STILL LIFE. 

In front of a lonely, quiet farm-house appear- 
ed a pleasant yet grave picture. A young and 
beautiful girl was sitting in an open arbor ; she 
was half maiden, half child ; near her was a 
child, a boy of some five years. The boy was 
lively, blooming, and pretty. The happiness of 
childhood, entire, gay, unbounded, and untrou- 
bled, spoke in his countenance, whenever he suc- 
ceeded in spelling out in the picture-book upon 
which he was poring, the name of the object, 
which the picture had already informed him, 
and as laboriously putting it together by letters. 
Learning, like his whole existence, was still to 
him a merry sport. For the girl, one might 
have wished that her existence might ever re- 
main as it now was, so fair, so pure, and so in- 
nocent was her whole aspect. But a trace of 
sadness upon the youthful features, and the black 
mourning dress which she wore, indicated that 
the grave realities of life had already begun to 
press heavily upon her. It was evidently with 
sorrowful remembrances and mournful thoughts, 
that her beautiful eyes were fixed upon the 
landscape which lay spread out before her. 

It was a lovely landscape. Two ranges of 
lofty hills bounded a narrow valley. The hills 
were clothed, from base to summit with a dense 
forest, from which, here and there gray rocks 
projected in singular forms, now seeming as 
though they were on the point of toppling down, 


and now as though they would fling their sum- 
mits up to the skies. Through the centre of 
the valley, over bright pebbles, flowed a rapid 
brook, whose soft rippling was lost among the 
alders and willows which shaded its banks. It 
had its source but a few hundred paces distant, 
in numerous springs on the sides of the hills, 
which uniting inclosed the valley. Its brief 
course ran through the narrow green fields which 
formed the valley at the foot of these hills. Only 
where the farm-house stood, had the skill and 
labor of human hands encroached upon the mea- 
dows, and formed a delightful garden on both 
sides of the clear water. A few hundred paces 
below the house the brook reached the goal of its 
brief career. Here the two ranges of hills came 
closer together ; their sides and summits were 
bare of wood, and showed only stern and naked 
rocks. Between these the brook took its way, 
and emptied itself into a stream which flowed so 
close by them, that it washed their feet. The 
cliffs formed a sort of high rocky defile just at 
the mouth of the brook, through which in the 
distant background, were visible the ruins of an 
old castle. 

Thus, in the midst of this long narrow dale, 
lay the still and solitary farm-house. It was in 
the centre of the garden, and was the only house 
in the valley. The road leading into the dale 
was only a footpath. Close by the mouth of 
the defile there was a deep, narrow cleft in one 
of the cliffs. Through this the path ran from 
the highway beyond, following the left bank of 
the brook up to the garden gate. The house 
was upon the right bank of the brook. At the 
gate a bridge crossed the brook, and from this 
a broad, straight path led up to the house. An 
open arbor covered the whole length of the 
path ; roses and honey-suckles peeped through 
the bars of the lattice. Along both sides seats 
were placed, between which the most beautiful 
domestic and exotic flowers grew in pots of 
white porcelain. The whole air was filled with 
their fragrance. 

In this arbor the maiden and child were sit- 
ting. Around them all was still and peaceful. 
No sound from without penetrated this narrow 
valley, and no sound arose from within. But it 
was not the silence of the grave that reigned 
there ; it was the solemn stillness of morning 
prayer, to which all nature, in this narrow cir- 
cuit, was devoting itself. The beams of the 
morning sun fell not here upon death and de- 
struction, but encountered every where a beau- 
tiful, strong, and fresh, but solemn life. 

The maiden herself was grave also. Yet, if 
she thought upon death and the grave, upon 
mourning and sorrow, upon the other hand 
there stood before her mind pictures of the 
future ; and how could pictures of the future of 
a young girl be altogether without gladness — 
without the blissful anticipation of a life of hap- 
piness ? 

She had been sitting in grave thought for a 
long while, and the boy had been long engrossed 
with the letters and pictures, when from the 


64 


ANNA HAMMER. 


house came out a young man, with slow and 
gentle steps, as though he was unwilling to in- 
terrupt the solemnity of the morning, or perhaps 
not wishing to disturb the rest of some beloved 
person within the house. He greeted the cou- 
ple in a friendly manner, which the maiden re- 
turned with a kind of grateful respect, and. the 
boy with a bold, childish shake of the hand. He 
told the girl that he had to take a walk beyond 
the valley, and might possibly not return before 
noon, or perhaps he might be back eai’lier. He 
left the garden, and took his way by the foot- 
path toward the cliff. 

The girl abandoned herself once more to her 
fancies and her dreams ; and the boy betook him- 
self again to his play of learning. 

44 C-o-f-f-i-n — coffin ,” he spelled out. 44 Anna, 
didn’t they put my grandmother in a coffin?” 

“ Yes, my child.” replied Anna Hammer. 

44 What did grandmother die for?” 

14 Every body has got to die.” 

44 What has every body got to die for?” 

“ Because the dear God has made it so.” 

Anna Hammer, like many a wiser one, might 
well have pondered over the question which a 
child sometimes asks, about the whys and where- 
fores of things. She had at least no answer to 
give upon the spot. From the house came a 
pale woman, likewise in deep mourning. 

44 Mother,” asked the boy, “ what must every 
body die for?” 

The woman who had known such sore trials, 
had an answer to give. 

44 That they may find peace,” said she, “which 
in this life they vainly seek.” 

The boy did not understand her, but he had 
new materials for further quiet thought. 

“ Anna,” said Madame Vorhoff to her sister, 
44 1 come to you to make a request.” 

44 What is it, dear Joanna?” 

44 Your harp has rested quietly ever since the 
death of our poor mother. Resume it again. 
Surprise the Princess with one of your heart-full 
fantasies. It will do her good, and will make 
your heart lighter, and mine, and those of us 
all ; and the sainted one who has gone above, 
will rejoice if our hearts are lightened.” 

44 It will be hard for me, Joanna; but if you 
wish it, it shall be done. But I am afraid that 
I shall be able to draw only mournful tones from 
the instrument.” 

44 Sadness which is imparted, lightens the 
heart of the one who imparts it, and enlarges 
that of the listener. To-day, then, after din- 
ner.” 

44 After dinner.” 

Edward Bushby and the Princess Amelia had 
successfully effected their flight. They traveled 
about for several days, under various names, and 
in different circumstances, through a number of 
the German States ; then they passed the fron- 
tiers of the Netherlands and of France ; and, 
when all traces of them were lost, returned to 
Germany. Bushby’s plans did not yet allow 
him to leave the German States. His purpose 
was to take up here, for a while, a quiet and 


secret residence. Such an abode he found in 
this narrow valley, where we have now found 
Madame Vorhoff, her child, and sister. It lay 
deep among the hills, in a district scantily peo- 
pled, and unknown to travelers, and remote from 
all intercourse with the State to which the 
Princess belonged. 

Geigenfritz had encountered the unfortunate 
woman and her family, wandering about in a 
foreign country, a prey to want, without shelter, 
friend, or acquaintance. The adventurer took 
them with him. He took them to a secluded 
hamlet, where he soon left them, for his roving 
life made a long stay in any one place impos- 
sible to him. He promised soon to return. In 
a few days he fulfilled his promise. 

“I am going to take you,” said he to the 
woman, 44 to an unknown friend of your husband, 
and to a noble lady whose protector he is. Your 
child and your sister will stay with you. Are 
you content?” 

The sorrowing woman expressed her most 
hearty thanks. 

44 The friend of your brother-in-law has looked 
out for you, young man, in a different manner,” 
said he, to Bernard Hammer. 44 This,” said he, 
handing him a roll of money, 44 he sends to you 
with directions to betake yourself to any Acad- 
amy of Painting you choose, and get instruction 
in Art.” 

Bernard Hammer also thanked him with a full 
heart. They asked the name of their unknown 
benefactor; but Geigenfritz might not inform 
them. 

The brother and sister separated. The part- 
ing was less painful in their improved circum- 
stances. Bernard took his way to one of the 
most celebrated German Academies. Madame 
Vorhoff, Anne, and the boy followed the strange 
man to the narrow valley with the rocky en- 
trance. 

44 You will meet only with the gentleman and 
lady,” said he to them on the way. 44 You will 
call the gentleman Herr Edward, and the lady 
Amelia. She will be your companion, and you 
will be her friend.” 

It was a pleasant afternoon whan they passed 
through the deep cleft into the dell. Anxiously 
did Madame Vorhoff, followed by Anna and the 
boy, go behind that singular man into the quiet 
valley, along the murmuring brook, into the 
garden, through the arbor, and within the house. 
An unbroken stillness reigned around. No liv- 
ing being was visible. At this moment, in fact, 
there was, with the exception of the new-comers, 
no human being in the valley. The garden was 
shut, as well as the house. Geigenfritz took 
out the key, and opened the door. 

44 We are here first,” said he. 44 Your new 
friends will arrive soon. In the mean while, put 
yourselves to rights.” 

He conducted them through the apartments 
of the house, giving his directions for their con- 
duct, rather in the form of advice. 

44 This apartment,” said he, 44 designating the 
pleasantest one in the house,” will be the lady’s 


STILL LIFE. 


65 


sitting-room. In this other the lady will sleep ; 
it will also be your sleeping apartment, Madame 
Vorhoff : the lady wishes to share it with you. 
Here, close by, Anna and the boy will sleep. 
On the other side of the hall yonder, will be the 
gentleman’s bedroom. The room in front will 
be the sitting room of the company, or, if you 
please, of the family.” 

Geigenfritz spoke and made arrangements as 
though he were no vagabond, but the head-cham- 
berlain in a noble house. The house was already 
furnished with convenient, and in part elegant 
furniture. A servant made her appearance a 
few minutes after, a slender, modest girl, who 
treated Geigenfritz with great respect, almost 
with veneration. With her help Madame Vor- 
hofl executed the directions given by Geigenfritz : 
Anna and the boy giving their assistance. All 
was ready when, conducted by him, Edward 
Bushby approached the dwelling, leading by the 
hand the Princess Amelia. 

With great delicacy, as well for the Princess as 
for Madame Vorhoff, he first addressed the latter, 
entreated them to be friends, and then asked her 
to conduct the Princess over the house and 
garden and grounds. 

In a few days it was as though a family of 
brothers and sisters inhabited that narrow valley. 
The life they led was that of an affectionate 
family, among whom one, on account of loftiness 
of culture and depth of feeling, unconsciously 
took the precedence. In this case it was the 
Princess, of whose rank the sisters were igno- 
rant. 

Anna and the boy were the first to wake in 
the morning. The new-risen, quickening sun 
always found them in the arbor in front of the 
house. Then came Edward, and took his seat 
by them, or sometimes made a short excursion 
in their company through the valley or up the 
hills. Afterward Madame Vorhoff joined them, 
but only for a short time, when she went back to 
give the first morning greeting to her friend. 
The Princess, however much she attempted it, 
could not altogether lay aside the aristocratic 
habits of court life. She was the last to make 
her appearance in that morning circle. 

On warm and pleasant mornings breakfast was 
taken in the arbor. Then the lady made a brief 
toilet, when walking, reading, conversation, and 
music, by Edward and the Princess, filled up the 
time till, at the aristocratic hour of five, dinner 
reunited them. Then conversation, stories, 
walking, or music, occupied them again. 

It was a simple mode of life ; but, among 
brothers and sisters and friends, the simplest 
mode of life is the most most beautiful and most 
delightful. 

Madame Vorhoff had returned to the house. 
Anna Hammer fell again into her musings. Some 
one tapped gently upon her shoulder. She 
looked up, and saw Geigenfritz standing behind 
her. The long, ungainly figure had as usual 
crept up without being perceived. 

“ Dreaming again, my little girl ?” asked he, 
in a tone of friendly jest. 

E 


She smiled with a kind of sad friendliness. 

“Something serious will come out of the 
dream,” he continued, with a significant em- 
phasis. 

“ Are you prophesying again, Geigenfritz ?” 
inquired the girl. 

The tall man had not been contented till all 
the inhabitants of the valley had learned to ad- 
dress him as Geigenfritz, and in the most famil- 
iar manner. He had even taught the servant 
girl to do so. Nobody, in fact, knew whether 
he had any other name. 

“ Herr Edward has perhaps been chattering,” 
replied he, laughing at the question of the girl, 
“ but you’d better believe, my pretty little miss, 
that you’ll soon have no more time for dreaming. 
If I’m not much mistaken, there’ll soon be a bit 
of work for you to do. You’ll find out about 
it when the time comes. Is Herr Edward at 
home ?” 

“ He went out a while ago.” 

“ Where ?” 

“ Out of the valley ; but I don’t know where.” 

“ When is he coming back?” 

“ Perhaps not till noon.” 

The hard features of the man expressed some 
uneasiness. In a little while he went away, 
without saying any thing further. This was his 
custom. 

He had scarcely gone, when the Princess and 
Madame Vorhoff came out to breakfast. A 
friendly dignity marked her whole appearance. 
Every body involuntarily did homage to her. 
Anna arose, went up to her and kissed her hand. 
The boy wished her good-morning with a rev- 
erential kiss of the hand. She kissed him on 
the cheek. 

“Where is our friend, Edward?” asked the 
Princess. “ Contrary to his custom, he is ab- 
sent.” 

Anna informed her that he left the valley early 
in the morning. 

The Princess blushed, and made no further 
inquiries. She gazed in silence at the hills, 
and away above the woody summits into the 
deep blue heavens. She seemed occupied by 
many thoughts and reminiscences. All at once 
she tore herself from them, perhaps, with a de- 
gree of violence. 

“ My dear Paul,” inquired she of the boy, 
“ has Anna told you a story to-day?” 

“ Not a story, but a tale,” replied the boy. 

“ And what difference is there, my wise little 
man, between a story and a tale?” 

“ Anna says they are brother and sister.” 

“Well, which is the brother, and which 
the sister, and what is the difference between 
them ?” 

The boy looked at little Anna, with an inquir- 
ing glance. She cast back at him a look half of 
inquiry, and half of encouragement ; but still he 
made no reply. Anna had to answer for him. 

“ The story, I told you, always happens about 
the house, always where one can tell it to little 
children. But the tale — ” 

“ Yes, but the tale,” broke in the boy, reeol- 


66 


ANNA HAMMER. 


lecting, after a fashion, “ is only about old castles, 
and rocks, and dark holes.” 

“ Pretty nearly right,” said Anna, a little em- 
barrassed. 

“ I perceive,” said the Princess kindly to Anna, 
“ you are a little scholar. Of the two, which do 
you call the brother, and which the sister?” 

“ I would call the story the brother and the 
tale the sister,” answered Anna, “for while the 
tale remains quiet and secluded in the place that 
belongs to it, the story runs boldly over the 
whole world, and is here and there and every 
where.” 

“ That is not without acuteness,” said the 
Princess ; “ but yet you will agree that the story 
is more tender, and fragrant, more feminine, and 
maidenly than the tale, which always comes to 
meet you with a terrible and perhaps bloody 
look ; or else is somewhat pert or frivolous, so 
that you have before you, you think, the picture 
of a wild boy.” 

“ It is not always so,” replied Anna. “ I 
know tales as charming and fragrant as the most 
tender woman.” 

“ When you are good enough to relate them 
next time, my dearest, you will have two atten- 
tive listeners in Paul and me. But to-day, Paul, 
I would like you to tell me Aunt Anna’s tale 
over again.” 

“ The tale,” said the boy, beginning his nar- 
ration at once, “ was of the White Lady and the 
Black one. Both of these ladies live in king’s 
castles. The White Lady is as white as snow 
from head to foot. People don’t see her always, 
and where she is when she is not seen, nobody 
knows. Anna thinks maybe she’s in her coffin, 
and only comes out when a king or a king’s 
child is going to die, then she walks about in the 
long dark passages in the king’s castle, but makes 
no noise, nobody can hear her. But every time she 
does so, then a king or a king’s child must die.” 

“ And the Black Lady?” asked the Princess. 

“The Black Lady,” continued the boy, “is 
all black, from head to foot ; but her face is — 
no — her face is — Aunt Anna, I’ve forgot ; how 
is her face?” 

“Before her face,” said Anna, prompting him, 
“she wears a thick black vail.” 

“Yes! But on her vail, and on her black 
clothes, and on her hands and feet, are dark spots 
of blood. She lives in kings’ castles, just as the 
White Lady does. But nobody sees her except 
in the castles of bad kings : for kings are some- 
times bad people — very bad — Anna says.” 

“ Alas, she is quite right,” said the Princess, 
with a heavy sigh. 

“ And they can do a great many bad things, 
and make many people very unhappy,” added 
the boy, confidently; and then went on with the 
tale : “ When nobody sees her, then she lives 
away down under the castle, down under the 
ground, where she is kept fast by good angels. 
But when a bad king comes, then the good angels 
weep, and cover their faces ; and then the Black 
Lady, with the blood spots on her, flies up from 
out of the earth and comes into the castle, and 


sets herself down close behind the king ; and 
there people can see her sitting day and night by 
him, and whispering bad things into his ear, so 
that he often screams out to himself, especially 
in the night when he is all alone with her, and 
she is sitting on his bed. She is a very bad 
woman that Black Lady, Anna says. When she 
comes to a king she never goes away from him 
till the time comes when he must die. Some- 
times she cuts his head off. But when he is 
dead, then she takes him with her away down 
under the castle, where she has her bloody bed. 
and there she tortures and torments him.” 

The boy ended his tale. The beams of the 
sun were falling perpendicularly and hot when 
Edward returned. The Princess looked at him 
with a modest curiosity. He understood her 
glance, and she understood the answer of his 
eyes. 

“ May I ask you, ladies,” he said, “ to bestow 
special care upon your toilets to-day. We have 
a visit to make in the neighborhood.” 

The Princess and Madame Vorhoff went into 
the house. Edward Bushby paced up and down 
the banks of the stream in a joyful restlessness. 
Geigenfritz came again into the garden. He 
walked directly up to Bushby. 

“ Sir,” said he, “ I have somewhat unpleasant 
news to tell you.” 

“ To-day ! just to-day !” 

“ Colonel Reuter is in the neighborhood.” 

The young man turned pale. His joy wa* 
changed to anxiety. “ Have you seen him your- 
self?” he asked. 

“ In the little town three leagues off. He 
passed the night there.” 

“ Is he alone?” 

“ All alone, except a coachman and servant. 
He comes from the capital. I couldn’t find out 
where he is going.” 

“ Has he set off again ?” 

“ I left the place early — by sunrise. They 
said he wouldn’t set out before ten o’clock.” 

“It is now — ” 

“ Almost eleven.” 

Bushby began to grow more composed. “ In 
fact,” said he, “ it is foolish to be troubled be- 
cause this man is in the neighborhood. He has 
never shown himself my enemy. On the con- 
trary, he has always manifested a sort of kind- 
ness toward me.” 

“Hun't trust him. Just think on his connec- 
tion with the Crown Prince.” 

“ Yet, on the other hand, he certainly stood in 
more intimate relations with my father.” 

“Perhaps as his betrayer.” 

“ I will condemn no one without proof.” 

“ How will you prove any thing about a man 
of whose whole business nobody knows even the 
| least thing ?” 

Bushby laughed. “ What do people know 
about your business, friend Geigenfritz ?” 

“ That’s quite another matter. You know me, 
and trust me. That’s enough. The rest may 
think what they please about me. I don’t blame 
them for it, and I can’t blame them cither.” 


STILL LIFE. 


67 


“ You are right,” continued Bushby, earnest- 1 
ly. “I don t see, as I said, any reason for anx- 
iety ; but we will be on our guard, as though 
there were danger. We are provided against 
any accident which does not take us too much by 
surprise. And you will guard us from surprise.” 

“ I will not stir from my watch post up yon- 
der to-day.” He pointed to the highest point of 
the hills which surrounded the vailey, and went 
on : “ I overlook from thence the country upon 
thi'ee sides for a long distance. On the fourth 
is our cave. If you want me, whistle, as usual.” 

He then took his departure. Bushby continued 
his walk for a while. His restlessness soon be- 
came one of pleasure. The Princess came from 
the house, fully dressed. She wore but one 
color — white — the color of the lily, of innocence, 
of virginity. This color wonderfully heightened 
her serene and lofty beauty, which was the 
beauty of innocence and of virginity, pure and 
white as the lily, only interlaced with the most 
delicate veins of the rose. She leaned upon his 
arm, with a blush of joy and happiness. He too 
was stirred with happiness, but his own happi- 
ness made him distrustful. 

“Amelia,” he said, “do you take this step 
without regret, without a single anxious glance 
at the future?” 

She took his hand, and laid it upon her heart, 
with the words, “ Let this joyful throbbing of 
my heart be your answer.” 

“ You go from a life of luxury and freedom 
from care into one of anxiety and disquiet I do 
not know what may be my fate the next hour, 
when my purposes in Europe will be accom- 
plished, when 1 shall again see my mother, and 
when I can again conduct you to her.” 

“I know all that. You have told me that 
frequently. I give you only the one answer. 
Your fate is my fate; your anxiety, your care, 
is my anxiet}', my care.” 

“It will be,” he continued, “a gloomy and 
monotonous life, which in that distant quarter 
of the world awaits me and my poor mother, 
and you too, if I am forced to return without 
having attained my object.” 

“ Then my mission will begin, to cheer your 
anxious life, and to soften the last days of your 
mother, and mine.” 

“ And from what a height do you descend. 
From a rare height of rank, of splendor, of 
brilliancy, of pomp, you descend into the midst 
of ordinary middle life, that has no splendor, no 
pomp, no rank to proffer you.” 

“ My friend, you have spoken the truth. I 
have indeed hitherto stood upon a height, but it 
was not the height of life. I stood without and 
above life, and you will conduct me back into 
life — to the true means of the true life. You 
have spoken rightly. Through you have I first 
learned to know what life is. Through you 
shall I become wholly united to life, more 
closely, firmly, and forever. This is my future, 
that shall henceforth be my pomp and my 
pride.” 

She seated herself upon a simple bench by 


his side, shut in by the luxuriant boughs of the 
trees ; a chestnut, in full blossom, spread it* 
shadowy branches above them. The alders on 
the banks of the brook opened here and there, 
and gave glimpses of the water rippling gently 
over the bright pebbles. The hill in front of 
| them lay quietly, with its thick woody crown, 
j beneath the beams of the sun, which was now 
approaching mid-heavens. 

The hands of the happy couple were closely 
joined, as were their hearts. They abandoned 
| themselves to blissful feelings — to images of 
the past and of the future. The Princess, after 
a while, resumed the thread of the discourse : 

“ It is the misfortune of princes,” said she, 
“ that they are kept at such a distance from 
mankind, from life. I only saw court ladies 
and court gentlemen ; I never saw human be- 
ings ; I never same in contact with the life of 
human beings. I was kept at a distance from 
my suffering parents, who were early taken 
from me. You were the first human being 
with whom I could speak a word, exchange a 
1 glance. Your heart was the first human heart 
I in which my own was mirrored back. There- 
fore my heart soon throbbed responsive to 
yours. Always among uniforms and robes, 
beneath which stirred only puppets, but no 
human hearts, I could not but be cold and im- 
passive. Then came you to me, with your 
free, fresh nature and heart, fresh from the 
mighty natural scenery of a free country. You 
taught me to know the life of a human being, 
for you knew what true life was, and were 
yourself a human being. From you I learnt 
what are the sorrows of the poor, and the woes 
of the persecuted, and the miseries of the people 
deprived of their freedom and oppressed. Could 
I avoid becoming yours, more and more? You 
taught me freedom, and I became your slave,” 
she said, with a smile and a pressure of her 
soft hand. 

“ My mistress,” he said, correcting her, and 
kissing her hand. 

“ My seclusion from the world,” the Princess 
went on to say, “ was at times laughable, and 
yet it was so sad and tiresome. I could never 
set my foot in the streets of the capital. Only 
in certain prescribed hours could I ride out, 
through prescribed streets, in the pompous car- 
riage of state, with a pompous lady-in-waiting 
by me, wdth a pompous coachman, and servants 
before and behind on the carriage. I envied 
the gay and happy promenaders in their lively 
thronging whirl along the streets, under the 
bright, clear sunshine. One day an irrepressi- 
ble longing came over me to go and mingle 
with them. My windows looked directly out 
upon the bridge across the broad, beautiful 
stream. It was a bright Sunday morning. 
Thousands of people were moving in gay 
crowds here and there upon the bridge ; all 
quiet and happy. I could no longer endure to 
stay in my cold, lofty, lonely chamber, and by 
my closed windows. I called my companion, 
‘ Let us put on our hats and shawls, and take £ 


68 


ANNA HAMMER. 


walk,’ said 1 to her. I was a child of some 
fourteen years. The court-lady stared in aston- 
ishment: ‘Where, your Highness?’ she asked. 
‘Upon the bridge.’ She was astounded. ‘I do 
not know if it is allowable,’ said she. ‘ Who 
will hinder us?’ I asked. ‘Court etiquette; I 
do not think that the Princesses of this House 
may mix with the people in the streets.’ ‘ The 
people ! You always talk just as though that 
were a term of reproach ! But I am not afraid 
to go on the bridge,’ said I, with perhaps a 
tone of childish bravado. ‘ That may be ; but I 
will go and ask the Head Governess.’ She went 
and asked the Governess. The Governess said 
that such a case had never before been presented 
to her, where a princess wished to take a walk 
upon a bridge. She must ask the Court Mar- 
shal. The case had never occurred within the 
experience of the Marshal. He must examine 
the precedents. He consulted the books on the 
weighty subject of court etiquette, the annals of 
life at court. There was no instance on record 
where a princess had gone out to walk on the 
bridge. He called the Council of State to- 
gether, to deliberate on the matter, for he was 
a very scrupulous person, and was very unwill- 
ing to refuse me a special request. The Coun- 
cil decided, that whereas there was no instance 
to be found, I must not go a- walking upon the 
bridge. It would have been of no avail to lay 
the matter before my grandfather, after the 
Council of State had decided it. Yet on many 
a bright Sunday morning did I stand viewing 
with a longing feeling, from my solitary, barred 
window, the gay stir and movement of the peo- 
ple on the bridge. Two years later a neighbor- 
ing potentate paid us a visit. He was a friendly, 
jovial old man, and a declared enemy to eti- 
quette. He made me his companion, and was 
fond of passing an hour fn my apartment. 
There came a warm, bright Sunday morning, 
like that when I first stood by my window. My 
longing woke again vividly within me. I told 
him my wish, and what had ceme of it. He 
laughed heartily. ‘Put on your hat and shawl, 
and your wish shall be gratified at once. I will 
make it all right with the Head Governess, with 
the Court Marshal, and all the rest of them.’ I 
put on my hat and shawl, and taking his arm, 
went over from the castle upon the bridge. It 
was the first time that my foot had touched its [ 
stones ; it was the first time that I had ever 
been among human beings like myself, rejoicing 
among the rejoicing ones ; the first time I had 
ever been among the people ; it was the first 
time I had ever been truly happy. I never was 
so again, till I became so on your heart. Our 
neighbor went away, and never again have my 
feet visited the streets, the bridge.” 

‘“Henceforth, replied Edward, “you shall 
always dwell among human beings, among lov- 
ing human beings. You shall abide in the midst 
of human life ; may it ever be a happy one to 
you.” 

“ At your side life will always be happy to 
me-” 


“ I, too, hope that happiness will always be 
with our life. And does not our hope have a 
high guarantee when I consider the peculiarity 
of our connection ? You, the daughter of a 
throne, perhaps yourself destined to a throne, 
descend voluntarily to the cottage of a subject. 
You reach out your hand to the son of him who 
would have attacked the throne of your father. 
Fate proceeds often in a singular manner. Most 
commonly it delights in separating and destroy- 
ing. To us it manifests itself, on the contrary, 
as a gentle reconciler. Should we. not look 
upon this as a happy omen ?” 

“ We should, indeed,” replied the Princess ; 
and then added, in a low tone of entreaty, “ You 
have often promised to relate to me your own 
story, and that of your father, at some favorable 
time. May I not ask to hear it now?” 

“ Be it so,” he answered, after a moment’s 
reflection. “ There must now be no secrets 
between us. You know the name of my fam- 
ily. My parents early brought their rank and 
wealth to the court of your grandfather. There 
my father attracted the attention of the monarch 
by the philosophical and enthusiastic nature that 
was characteristic of him in his youth, and which 
bound your grandfather to him. My father, 
though considerably the younger, was likewise 
attracted by the simple and upright character 
of the monarch. A sort of friendship sprung up 
between them, such as could exist amid such 
differences of age, temperament, views, and sta- 
tion. The monarch listened to the subject when 
he spoke of the happiness of the people and the 
virtue which befitted the rulers, and even, by- 
and-by, when he gave utterance to what were 
styled ‘ amiable fancies’ about popular liberty 
and the duties of the rulers, with all the more 
sympathy since these and such like fancies were 
doubly new and interesting coming from aristo- 
cratic lips. A free and united German people ! 
This had not only been from early childhood 
the imagination of my father, but it was the 
dream of the boy, the life of the youth, and the 
most earnest endeavor of the man. For this 
end he lived, for this end he would have died, 
could it have been attained by his death. His 
immediate effort was to win over your grand- 
father to that design. His prominent position 
among the princes of Germany would further 
the fulfillment of those promises which had been 
solemnly made by those princes to their subjects 
in times of peril and danger, and the fulfillment 
of which had been as vainly awaited as those 
promises had been solemnly made. These con- 
tinual ‘ fancies’ of my father could not fail to 
have an influence upon the sound judgment of 
your grandfather. His acute penetration and 
sincere purpose almost brought him to acquies- 
cence. What the monarch had hitherto called 
‘fancies,’ soon appeared to him in the garb ol 
lofty truth ; what he had looked upon as a phi- 
losophical dream, presented itself to him as the 
fulfillment of a sacred duty to his people, and 
at the same time to the whole German people. 
He even began to prompt his Council to decisive 


STILL LIFE. 


69 


measures. Then the Camarilla began to ap- 
proach him. If up to this time they had looked 
upon the efforts of my father with cool con- 
tempt, these efforts all at once became in their 
view so much the more dangerous and odious. 
Aristocracy, bureaucracy, and priestcraft joined 
for a fearful contest against my father. They 
were victorious. Spare me the particulars. 
Where did ever a powerful Camarilla fail of 
success when they wished to enslave the peo- 
ple ? A wall of separation was built up between 
my father and the monarch. It was an easy 
slander to represent to the prince w y ho w r as 
seated upon the isolated position of a throne, 
that the man who w r as striving for the w r eal and 
freedom of the people was a traitor against the 
throne, a turbulent person, the head of an in- 
surrectionary party who were plotting in secret. 
My father was banished from court, and he 
owed it to his intimate relations with the mon- 
arch that he was not indicted for high treason 
— he who had done nothing except to arouse 
the feeling and purpose of justice in the bosom 
of the prince. He exiled himself from the coun- 
try, but he could not banish from his heart the 
love of his German fatherland. Other hearts in 
the German States were beating for the wel- 
fare of their country; my father connected him- 
self with these. They established an extensive 
association for the union of Germany and her lib- 
eration from the shameful chains of tyranny, and 
for the acquisition of the solemnly-promised and 
chartered rights of the people. The associa- 
tion was detected by the servants of the princes. 
Thousands of noble men and youths were thrown 
into chains and dungeons. To demand the 
rights of the people w r as styled rebellion and 
hio-h-treason. Prosecutions on an immense scale 

O ^ i 

were instituted. Sentences of death, or impris- 
onment for life, were the lot of many, too many.” 

“And your father?” asked the Princess. 

“ He w T as condemned to death by the courts 
of your grandfather.” 

“ And then ?” 

“You do not venture to speak the w r ords, 
completion — execution. 1 can not utter it. 
Whether the sentence was carried into effect, 
whether it was completed or not, we know not. 
It is this that has brought me, under a feigned 
name, to the court of your grandfather — this, 
the terrible uncertainty as to the fate of a dear 
father, a beloved husband ; the burning desire 
of the son, of the wife, to learn his fate.” 

“ What have you learned ?” 

“Nothing!” After a pause, he continued: 

“ I had early left my father’s house. It was 
perhaps a peculiarity of my father, that he was 
unwilling that I should breathe the enslaved 
German air, and so he sent me at an early age 
to Geneva to be educated. There I was to re- 
main till my eighteenth year. Then I was to 
travel over Europe, but must never touch upon 
Germany or Russia. When I was twenty years 
old, I entered upon my travels in Africa and 
By the command of my father, which 
was utterly opposed to my own wish, this jour- 1 


ney w T as to continue for four years without 
interruption. I was to form my own plan of 
travel. I could give intelligence of myself 
when I pleased ; but I must expect no intelli- 
gence from my parents even while my course 
of travel was undecided. I was to travel under 
the assumed name of Bushby. Perhaps my 
father had arranged all this in provident fore- 
sight of w’hat w 7 as to occur, so that I might be 
entangled in no movement from which a favor- 
able issue might not be anticipated. 

“I entered on my travels. For four whole 
years I journeyed about in distant parts of the 
earth, w T ith all the eagerness and freedom from 
care natural to youth, delighting myself in every 
thing new and lovely ; but receiving no tidings 
of my country, my parents, or friends. At the be- 
ginning of the fourth year, I returned to Europe. 
I learned the fearful fate of my father — so much 
the more fearful, for its obscurity and uncer- 
tainty. I found my mother in despair, with- 
drawn from the w’orld, buried in one of our 
lonely castles. 

“ In the United States of North America, in 
a w r arm, healthy and charming district, I had 
become acquainted with a noble family of Ger- 
man emigrants. There, in the New World, 
among new men, I placed my mother. I sold 
some of our German estates, and in an American 
valley purchased with the proceeds a large and 
fertile estate. There I have left the mournful 
woman. I w T as impelled back to Germany to 
seek some trace of my father. I promised my 
mother to search two w T hole years ; and here 
I now stand in the same uncertainty as on the 
day w’hen I left her.” 

“It is terrible,” said the Princess, with a 
deep sigh, “that it should be my kindred, my 
own nearest kindred, w’ho have brought about 
this fearful fate of your father. Oh, may I be 
enabled to make some reparation to you and to 
your noble mother !” 

“ I have already told you,” said Edward, 
“that in our union I behold the reconciling hand 
of heaven ; and the hour of that union is now 
striking,” he added. “I have made a confidant 
of the priest of a neighboring village, a noble, 
venerable old man. He is ready to bless our 
union. At this hour he awaits m. Madame 
Vorhoff will accompany us as witness, and that 
strange man who is so truly devoted to me.” 

He had risen up. She hung trembling to his 
arm, and looked at him inquiringly and implo- 
ringly. She could not speak. The decisive, 
hour had come — decisive, irrevocably decisive 
of the fate of her w T hole life. She was about to 
enter upon the path that led to that decision. 
Once moi*e she gazed upon the man to w r hom 
she w r as about to intrust, with her whole heai't, 
forever and irrevocably, her fate ; as if she would 
ask if he loved her as fervently as she loved 
him ; as if she would imploi'e that she might 
ever remain his beloved w T ife. With a gentle 
sigh, she flung herself into his arms. 

He understood her. “My Amelia,” he said, 

“ my wife foi'ever !” 


70 


ANNA HAMMER. 


He clasped her in his strong arms, and press- 
ed her to his beating heart. 

She went into the house, prepared herself for 
the walk, and summoned Madame YorholF to 
accompany her. They left the valley. At the 
eutlet of it, Geigenfritz joined them. A nod 
gave Edward to understand that he had seen 
nothing suspicious. They proceeded slowly and 
quietly on their way. The cleft in the hills ad- 
mitted them into another valley, broader and 
more open, but not less beautiful than that from 
which they came. In this lay a pleasant little 
hamlet, beyond which on the declivity of the 
hill, the simple village church stood alone. To 
this they directed their steps. 

They entered the narrow, quiet church-porch. 
The aged priest was already kneeling before 
the altar. He arose as they entered. The 
pair knelt down before the altar. Geigenfritz 
and Madame Vorhoff took their places behind 
them. 

The priest recited the prayers of the Church 
over the bridal pair, exchanged their rings, and 
blessed as man and wife, before God and the 
world, Count Edward Constantine von Arnstein 
and the Princess Amelia Sidonia Alexandria 
ron 

The sacred ceremony was ended. For a 
long while the bride rested on the arm of the 
bridegroom ; but no longer inquiringly and im- 
ploringly, but believingly, trustingly. 

The priest was thanked in a few simple and 
hearty words, A kiss fell upon the lips of 
Madame Vorhoff', who was about to salute the 
hand of the daughter of the Prince ; a warm 
shake of the hand greeted the unmoved Geigen- 
fritz. 

Quietly as they had come, they returned to 
the quiet valley. Count Edward von Arnstein 
led his bride into the house. Once more she flung 
herself upon his breast with the perfect devotion 
of love and confidence. She then begged him 
to lead her to her favorite spot in the valley. 

The garden in which the solitary farm-house 
stood stretched back to the centre of the hill, 
which here formed its rear wall. It then lost 
itself in a dense thicket, with which the hill 
was clothed. Not far from the upper end was 
a rocky projection, overgrown with wild roses 
and acacias. A singular arching of the rock 
formed a little grotto, from which a person, him- 
self concealed by the bushes, could have a view 
of the entire valley, and through the opening in 
the rock, of the country beyond. One could 
follow the course of the clear brook which ran 
through the valley almost from its source to 
where it disappeared in the stream which ran 
beyond the precipice. This stream could also be 
seen rolling its silvery waters by the rocks which 
shut in the narrow valley. Under the arch of 
the precipice, in the distant background, the 
gray old ruins of the castle were seen lifting up 
their hoary heads. This was the favorite spot 
of the newly wedded pair. Here they had 
dreamed many a fair and happy dream of life. 
To this spot Count Arnstein led his bride. 


“ My dear friend,” she asked him, “ let me 
think upon my dead mother, for an hour, and 
pray.” 

He answered by a pressure of her hand, and 
left her rapt in the pious thoughts of a daughter 
upon a departed mother, and in sacred prayer 
to heaven. As he returned to the house Anna 
Hammer met him with her harp. 

“ My sister sent me,” said she pointing to the 
grotto. 

“ She is at prayer,” replied the Count. 

“I will accompany her prayers with solemn 
music,” said the girl. 

She took her seat by the foot of the hill, be- 
low the grotto. It was a noble and solemn 
melody -which she then sounded forth. There 
were tones of supplication, of lowliness before 
God, and of elevation to God. The heart of the 
Count was likewise opened, and he yielded him- 
self up to their influence. Just then he heard 
some one approaching. 

“ Good day, Master Bushby.” 

It was Colonel von Reuter, who, cold and 
calm, and jiale as an apparition from the tomb, 
stood before him. 

“ Colonel !” exclaimed the Count, more in 
surprise and alarm than displeasure. 

“ Master Bushby, you are aware that I wish 
you well. You are seeking your father.” 

“ Colonel, how did you know — ” 

“ That I should find you here. — Do not 
trouble yourself about that. Your father is — ” 

“ Does he live ?” the young man eagerly in- 
terrupted him, scarcely knowing whether he 
should reproach himself for being carried away 
by his feelings, and thus betraying himself to the 
strange man before him ; or whether he should 
not trust to him at once, in order to attain a 
final certainty concerning the fate of his father. 

“ The Count von Arnstein lives, and is in one 
of the fortresses of that country whose brightest 
jewel, Master Bushby, is now in your posses- 
sion : my pledged word of honor, forbids me to 
tell you the name of the fortress.” 

Colonel Reuter spoke these words in his usual 
tone, half cold, half solemn. 

In vain Count Arnstein sought to discover • 
their significance from the tone in which they 
were uttered. Still more vain was his attempt 
to read it in the countenance of the man, which 
was as incommunicative as he was disposed 
to have it appear. The features were as cold 
and impassive as stone — and all overshadowed 
by his strong projecting brows. The Count in 
the mean while, had fully recovered his self-pos- 
session. 

“ Sir,” said he quietly, “ I do not know what 
design has brought you to me. I will acknowl- 
edge, though your own penetration must'alreadv 
have told you as much, that your enigmatical 
character has given me no great inclination to- 
ward you.” 

“ That was very unjust in you, Master Bush- 
by ; for, in truth, I only wish you well.” 

“ I will accord a good intention to you, 
Colonel. May I then entreat you to impart 


THE FAIR. 


71 


more to me ; and, as far as your duty permits, 
to give me more definite information respecting 
my father.” 

“ 1 am very sorry, Master Bushby, that this 
is entirely out of the question — excuse me from 
telling you the reasons — but there is one thing 
— there might perhaps be a disposition to ex- 
change the Count von Arnstein for the Princess 
Amelia.” 

“Sir!” exclaimed the Count; interrupting 
the ice-cold Colonel. A fearful agony thrilled 
through him ; his hands were clenched, as 
though he would make a deadly attack upon a 
demon that was before him. But he soon col- 
lected himself. “ Sir,” he continued, more calm- 
ly, “ you appear to forget that you are not speak- 
ing to a scoundrel !” 

“ Do you not perceive,” replied the Colonel, 
no less coolly than before, “ Master Bushby, 
that the proposition does not emanate from 
me ?” 

He then took his departure, with calm and 
measured steps, without uttering another word. 
The sound of the harp rang out more strongly 
than before. The notes uprose as though they 
would bear the soul, in infinite prayer and love, 
up to the Supreme Source of all love and of all 
life. Then they ceased. 

The Count turned his steps toward the girl 
who had been playing. He beckoned her to 
follow. With her he ascended the path leading 
to the grotto. They reached the front of the 
rock in silence. The Princess was not to be 
seen ; they searched about the grotto to the 
right and the left, and all about the rocky spur. 
There was no trace of her to be discovered. 
The Count called her by name, but received no 
answer. He called out again and again, more 
and more loudly ; but still no answer. He 
looked throughout the valley, upon every side, 
and in every corner, all of which lay before his 
eyes from the elevation on which he stood ; there 
was nothing to be seen. He looked up to the 
wall of the hill which overhung the grotto, steep 
and overgrown ; all was still, all void. 

“ Amelia ! Amelia ! Where can she be ?” 

He hastened to the house. She was not 
there ; she had not been there. 

They went along the brook, in the arbor and 
the walks of the garden. But they found her 
not. They hurried through the whole valley ; 
through all the windings and recesses of the 
hills. But all was still and empty. 

A horrid apprehension seized upon them. In 
the mind of the Count it assumed a definite form, 
and connected itself with the appearance of Col- 
onel Reuter. To the sisters it was wholly inex- 
plicable. The Count hastened from the valley. 
At its outlet he encountered Geigenfritz. 

“She is gone!” he exclaimed. 

“ And he was here !” 

“ A . half-hour ago.” 

“How long has she been gone? and how?” 

The Count told him the circumstances, as 
they were hastening onward. 

“ I have watched the three sides of the valley,” 


said the old adventurer, “ and have seen nothing 
suspicious. She must have been suddenly sur- 
prised in the grotto. They must have stopped 
her mouth, and hurried her over the crest of the 
hill. Just that quarter is concealed from my 
view.” 

They directed their steps to that quarter. 
There were new hills and new recesses. But 
all were empty; no human beings, and no traces 
of the lost one. 

Whither should they now turn ? They took 
their course to the nearest highway. It was 
empty, as far as the eye could reach. They 
separated, and went in different directions. 

It was late in the evening when they met 
again at the farm-house in the narrow valley. 
The Count had discovered no traces of his lost 
bride. Geigenfritz said : 

“ She has been carried away. Two leagues 
off, a close traveling carriage passed on the high- 
way. It was surrounded by about twenty horse- 
men in gray mantles ; but under the mantles, a 
foreign uniform was perceived which the people 
here had never before seen. Carriage and horse- 
men hurried on to the frontiers.” 

A brief Still Life had it been in the narrow 
valley. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FAIR. 

It was fair-day in a village near the frontier. 
The fair was held in a broad plain, surrounded 
with shrubbery near the village. A gay, busy, 
noisy stir of life prevailed there. Booths in 
great numbers were erected ; they stood in long 
straight rows, in crooked rows, and in narrow 
corners. Spacious tents with flaunting flags, 
banners, and streamers surrounded the plain. In 
the booths wares of all sorts were displayed before 
the eyes of those desirous of purchasing or of 
examining — wares of all kinds from the ginger- 
bread and confectionery and wooden and leaden 
toys for children, up to fine cloths and clothing 
for the grown-up world. For kitchen and cellar, 
for house and stall, for garden and field, for 
master and servant, for mistress and maid, for 
great and small, for laboring man and noble dame, 
for all needs and every wish, for body and soul, 
might here be sought, asked for, and found some- 
times, if not always and every thing. The sellers 
in the booths were crying up their wares. The 
lookers and buyers thronged up and down in and 
between the booths, examining, and chaffering, 
and buying, and praising, and finding fault; they 
pressed and pushed, went back and forth, form- 
ing a snarl that would neither be loosed or cut. 
In the tents were seated long rows and jolly 
groups of feasters and carousers, behind full 
flasks, shining glasses, and brimming goblets. 
The farm-laborer was there, in his blue linen 
frock, with his fat and rosy-cheeked sweetheart; 
and the nobleman of the neighborhood, with his 
meagre, pale, long-armed, short-breathed noble 


72 


ANNA HAMMER. 


maiden. Every body was there whose rank lay 
between these two extremes : the citizen, rich 
and poor ; the merchant and the mechanic ; the 
farmers, great and small ; the pompous village 
magistrate, and the humble tinker. Official 
functionaries were not wanting, from the judge 
and magistrate down to the assistants of the su- 
pernumerary, of the messenger, and of the office- 
warmer. There was no lack of sharpers and 
thieves and pickpockets, and of chevaliers of 
industry of both sexes. 

For this yearly fair was a famous one, far and 
■wide, and from far and wide every body attended it. 

We have omitted to mention the numerous 
gambling-booths which were built and squatted 
down, wherever a place could be found, a little 
aside from the trading-booths. We had also 
forgotten the countless musicians, who in bands 
and troops and singly, with horn and clarionette, 
with bass-viol and fiddle, with cithern and harp 
and barrel-organ traversed the plain from end 
to end. We had also omitted the gipsies and 
gipsy-women who, with the black hair and red 
cloaks, with red lips and mischievous glance, 
were gliding like party-colored serpents, up and 
down and among the moving crowd, on all sides 
and in every direction. 

We had forgotten, finally, and may the muse 
of German history of the Nineteenth Century — the 
era of the German war of liberation — pardon us 
for so doing — we had forgotten the numerous 
gendarmes and police-officers, with their — but 
we forbear, what need is there of describing the 
officers of police ? They are every where, and 
whoever has breathed German air knows them 
— to his cost. 

The crowd was stirring or was quiet, was 
noisy or w T as still ; but no one observed the still 
and quiet ones. They saw and heard only the 
pressing and thronging, the moving and pushing, 
the noise and crying, the laughing and uproar. 

The more quiet elements had for the greater 
part withdrawn themselves under the shadow of 
a row of green arbors which stood behind the 
booths and tents, in and by the dense thickets 
upon the skirts of the plain, which were gayly 
and not seldom romantically decked out. The 
road ran close by these arbors. 

It was past noon. The long summer after- 
noon had for some time been begun. The in- 
tensity of the sun’s beams had begun to be miti- 
gated, and the shadows of the trees grew re- 
freshing. It began to grow quiet in the great 
dancing-tent in the middle of the scene. 

Along the highway, drawn at a quick post- 
trot by four stout horses, rolled an elegant car- 
riage. The bearded coachman guided the pranc- 
ing and champing animals, from his lofty seat, 
with a safety and dignity which perhaps is not al- 
ways found upon a lofty throne. Two servants in 
rich liveries looked with the superciliousness pe- 
culiar to flunkies, from the steps behind the car- 
riage, upon the crowd, which gave way upon both 
sides with a kind of respectful deference. In the 
carriage was seated a gentleman, not tall, but so 
thick that he almost filled the back seat of the car- 


riage with his own proper person, and so fat that 
the organs through which intelligence reaches 
mankind, were almost hidden and covered by 
flesh and fat. The mouth, however, by no means 
a small one, was quite visible. His dress was 
distinguished by an elaborate costliness. His 
bosom was ornamented by a number of brilliant 
pins ; heavy golden chains crossed and recrossed 
over his gay vest ; from his broad watch chain 
depended golden keys, and seals, and rings ; the 
long ribbon of some order or other adorned his 
left breast ; his fingers — for he wore no gloves 
on his great thick hands — were covered by a 
mass of rings. By him, but forced quite into 
the background by the volume of his enormous 
body, sat a charming young girl, in rich and 
tasteful attire. Upon the other seat was an 
elderly lady, apparently a poor relation, a com- 
panion of the younger one. 

The carriage stopped near the arbors. A 
simple, gentle b-r-r-r from the coachman sud- 
denly stopped the rapid course of the horses, 
who stood like the front of an army on parade. 
Proud of his power and of the obedience of his 
horses, the coachman looked at the crowd. 
Prouder still looked the master in the carriage 
— the master of such a coachman and of such 
horses. The flunkies jumped down from the 
steps, and lifted and dragged the fat gentleman 
from the carriage ; the young lady sprang lightly 
down, just touching the arm of the servant ; the 
elder lady followed. While one of the servants 
went forward, to make way, and the other 
brought up the rear, the little company betook 
themselves to the arbors, the fat gentleman 
wheezing and coughing. A spacious arbor 
with a double entrance was found empty, and 
they took possession of it. One of the servants 
went back to the carriage to give the necessary 
orders ; the other remained in attendance. 

The fat gentleman looked about him with 
great satisfaction. There was a smirk of con- 
tentment upon his mouth, and what of his little 
eyes was visible was lighted up with inward 
complacency. 

“ Did you see, ’Rieke,” said he to the young 
lady — and his voice was somewhat thin and 
reedy — “ did you see how the horses behaved ? 
Noble — magnificent. It made a great sensation 
among the people.” 

“It’s a pretty turn-out, dear father,” replied 
the lady. 

“ Cost a pretty bit of money. — But fine, fine 
here — the very best booth empty. — Just as if it 
was put up for us. ’Rieke, I’ve an idea that we 
shall have a lucky day of it.” 

“I hope so, dear father.” 

“ Every thing looks like it : the swallows 
flew high this morning early.” 

The elder lady laughed somewhat stiffly. 
“You can’t get rid of your belief in such super- 
stitions, cousin,” said she. 

“ Superstition, cousin,” replied the gentle- 
man. “ What is superstition ? What’s the dif- 
ference between your belief and superstition ? 
; Or don’t you believe any thing at all?” 


THE FAIR. 


73 


The cousin was silent. She was perhaps not 
willing to revive an old contest, of whose fruit- 
lessness she had often been convinced. The fat 
gentleman did not persist in a dispute which 
might have fatigued him. 

“ Where can the Justice and his son be stop- 
ping ?” inquired he, looking about him. 

Nobody made any answer. The daughter 
sighed. 

“ He was to be here at four exactly. But 
meanwhile,” he added with a lickerish smirk, 
u we won’t put off refreshment for body and 
soul.” 

The servant was directed to order coffee, 
wine, and pastry. They looked out upon the 
gay stir and throng of the fair. The arbors 
commanded almost the whole extent of the plain. 
In the distant groups nothing could be distin- 
guished but men, women, and tents. But sev- 
eral nearer masses and groups were observable, 
and, in the immediate neighborhood, several per- 
sons were seen emerging from these groups. 

T wo students came out from the throng. Two 
old-German youths, with long light hair, bare 
neck, and open breasts, with narrow coats and 
wide nether garments, with large spurs on their 
small bools, with riding-whips, without horses 
and no gloves, with fine bright spectacles over 
their dull lack-lustre eyes, with high cheek- 
bones and hollow cheeks. They approached 
the arbor in which sat the fat gentleman and 
his ladies. 

Their glance fell upon the daughter. 

“A pretty girl, brother.” 

“A pretty Genuan girl, brother; let us pre- 
sent her the offering of the regard of German 
youths.” 

They passed through the second entrance to 
the arbor, and took their seats. They flung 
silent but reverential German looks toward the 
maiden. She blushed. The father wriggled 
about uneasily on his seat. 

“ Fatal,” said he. 

A young fellow and a girl approached from 
different directions, and met before the booth. 
Their eyes saluted each other, and they shook 
hands. 

“There you be, Christy,” said she. 

“I’ve been a-looking for you, Lizzy,” he an- 
swered. 

They went together into the thicket behind 
the booth, and stood there. 

“ I’ve got to be off in the morning, Lizzy,” 
he said in a sorrowful tone. 

“For five years,” she replied still more sor- 
rowfully. 

“ It’s a long while, but it ’ll get over with. 
You won’t forget me ?” 

“ I forget you ! But ’ll you keep true to 
me ?” 

“ I will. It’s too bad that a fellow has to be 
made a soldier of!” 

“And what for? There isn’t any war.” 

“ Just to tickle the great lords and their offi- 
cers. We might have been married, if they 
hadn’t drafted me.” 


“ We’d got every thing ready for the wedding. 
And now you must go and be a soldier ; and who 
knows if we shall ever see each other again ?” 

“ You’ll have got somebody else, when I come 
back.” 

“ No. Don’t say so. But you’ll see a many 
other girls, and at last won’t come back at all. 
You’ll like it better in those strange countries a 
great way off.” 

“ I’ve bought you a little silver cross ; wear 
that, so that you won’t forget me.” 

“ I’ve got a silver heart for you. Always 
keep it with you, and think of me.” 

The pair went on, and their words were lost 
in the distance. 

The daughter of the fat gentleman looked 
with a sad glance, sometimes down, and some- 
times up to the clear blue heavens. The gen- 
tleman himself drank his wine with great satis- 
faction. 

“There German tyranny again rends the 
hearts of a German couple,” said one of the 
students, glancing toward the daughter of the 
fat gentleman, to see whether she paid any at- 
tention to what he was saying. 

A large-limbed, broad-shouldered, burly farm- 
er approached, with a tall, well-built, young coun- 
try-fellow. Their dress and deportment indi- 
cated that they belonged to the more wealthy 
and respectable class of countrymen. The hard, 
bi'own features of the old man wore a displeased 
look, while the more delicate countenance of the 
young man seemed troubled. 

The fat gentleman in the arbor called out to 
the old man. 

“Good-day Schulze;* what’s the matter? 
Doesn’t your produce go well ?” 

“ Much obliged, Herr Councilor. But one 
sometimes has troubles, even on fair-day.” 

“ If your eye offends you, Schulze — ” 

“ It isn’t my eye ; it’s my own blood.” 

“ But there’s blood in one’s eye, Schulze.” 

“ I mean it’s this youngster here, Herr Coun- 
cilor.” 

“ Oh ! I understand. He’s thinking of the 
girl again, is he? Yes, children make us a 
deal of trouble sometimes. But really, Schulze, 
what have you against the girl? Let your 
son marry her, for heaven’s sake.” 

“ Sir !” exclaimed the old man in astonish- 
ment. The eyes of the young man sparkled. 

“ Well, what !” went on the Councilor. 
“ You’re a well-to-do man ; you’ve got a pretty 
farm, and well stocked ; and the expense of a 
daughter-in-law is nothing to you. The lad is 
your only son. The girl is a good, nice body. 
He loves her, and she loves him ; and her parents 
are good, honest people.” 

“ But the daughter of a cotter ?” exclaimed 
the old man, in some excitement. 

“ It’s no disgrace to be poor, and the cotter 
is as good as a farmer, like you.” 

“ Sir, nobody on my farm has ever married 
any body but a Schulze ; and so it shall still be. 
Heaven preserve you, Herr Counselor.” 

* Schulze, a petty local magistrate. 


74 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“ Stupid fellow !” said the fat Councilor, stuff- 
ing a large piece of pastry into his mouth. 
“ ’Rieke, these rich farmers are a proud set of 
people. There isn’t a more aristocratic person 
in the world than a well-off farmer. I do be- 
lieve he’d rather kill his son than let him marry 
the cotter’s daughter.” 

The girl sighed, and looked down upon the 
ground, and up to the skies, and finally, with an 
anxious expression, at the crowd in the fair. 

One of the students said, with emphasis, 
“ There is much wanting before the German peo- 
ple can become one united people.” 

A handsome young man, with a decidedly 
aristocratic air, made his way through the crowd, 
looked keenly toward the arbor, toward which 
he then turned his course. The girl’s face be- 
came crimsoned, and her coffee-cup almost fell 
from her trembling hand. The face of the fat 
Councilor grew of a dusky red. 

“Fatal! cursed!” he muttered between his 
teeth. “ I had hoped for a lucky day here to- 
day.” 

“ Your most humble servant, Councilor, and 
ladies,” said the young man. 

“ Your servant, Baron,” replied the Councilor, 
half morosely, half obsequiously. 

The daughter had not yet dared to raise her 
eyes from the ground. The young man took 
no notice of either the ill-humor or the embar- 
rassment of which he seemed to be the occasion. 

“ Are you enjoying yourselves ?” he asked, 
with an air of self-possession. 

“ Miserably !” answered the Councilor. 

“ And you, mademoiselle ?” 

“ It is very warm.” 

An addition was now made to the company. 
Two gentlemen entered. 

“ Ah, good-day, my dear Councilor,” said one 
of them, extending his hand. 

“ Welcome, brother Schrader,” he replied, 
with much cordiality. 

Schrader introduced his companion and the 
Councilor to each other. “ My friend, the manor- 
holder, Goltz — my old friend, the manor-holder 
Councilor Althoff and family. The Croesus of 
the land-owners in the district.” 

The appellation was very satisfactory to Coun- 
cilor Althoff ; but he replied, of course, with a 
modest disclaimer : 

t: My brother Schrader likes to joke now and 
then.” 

He turned somewhat grimly to the young 
man who had entered a few minutes before : 
“Baron von Katen, Assessor of Finance;” and 
continued the conversation with Goltz. 

“ I think I have heard from Schrader that you 
have a large property. Of how many acres does 
it consist? 

“ About two thousand acres of plowed land, 
three hundred of meadow, and eight thousand 
of woodland.” 

The Councilor felt his respect increase for 
his new acquaintance. “ The deuce !” said he. 

“ Yes, yes, my dear brother Councilor,” said 
Schrader. “By the side of such men we are 


mere squatters. His main property is in West 
Prussia. There he has a principality, in com- 
parison with which the estate he has been speak- 
ing of is but a peasant’s garden-plot.” 

The Councilor engaged the owner of the 
principality in an earnest conversation about 
husbandry. Schrader seemed to have antici- 
pated this ; for he at once addressed himself 
with equal earnestness, though not quite so loud- 
ly, to the young people. 

“ And how goes it with you, Mademoiselle 
Frederica ?” he asked of the young lady, with a 
significant side-look at the Councilor. 

“ My father is inexorable,” was the reply, in 
a sentimental tone. The young man sighed too. 

“ Pooh ! Never give it up so?” 

“We will never be separated.” 

“ Never.” 

“ Well, let me try my luck to-day. You go 
out and look at the fair. Take your aunt with 
you ; and don’t come back too soon.” 

He said all this in a tone so kindly, yet so de- 
cisive, that even the aunt ventured no opposition. 
The young folks, casting a grateful look at 
Schrader, left the arbor with rapid steps, ac- 
companied by the aunt. The Councilor did not 
remark this till they were out of sight. He 
seemed discomposed, stopped short in the midst 
of a sentence, and sprang up in an agitated 
manner. A beggar woman, ragged and hun- 
gry, with a couple of hungry and ragged chil- 
dren, came up to him, and begged for alms. 

“ Pack off to the devil with you !” he ex- 
claimed, pushing her away. 

But Schrader held him back. “ My good 
friend,” said he, “ don’t forget the poor, and let 
them go ; I sent them out ; they’re going to 
make a purchase for me.” 

He took a florin from his purse, and showed 
it to the somewhat offended Councilor. “ Double 
it.” said he ; “you’re richer than I am.” 

The Councilor, with a growl and a muttered 
curse, drew out his purse ; and when he saw 
that Goltz had likewise put a florin into the hand 
of Schrader, he added a couple of florins to the 
sum ; with an air of self-satisfaction Schrader 
handed over the sum to the poor woman. 

A burly gendarme had in the mean white 
entered the arbor. 

“ Gentlemen, begging is not allowed. Here, 
you good-for-nothing, follow me to prison,” said 
he, endeavoring to get possession of the money 

“ Shall we allow this ?” asked Schrader o r 
the Councilor. 

The dignity of the Councilor seemed to be 
wounded. All the wrath he had been for the 
last few minutes choking within himself, he now 
let loose on the poor gendarme. 

“ Master gendarme,” he exclaimed, “ I am 
master of my own purse. I shall do with mv 
money what I please. Don’t you undertake to 
meddle with my money.” 

“ Sir,” replied the gendarme, not much less 
irritated, “ don’t offer any resistance. I am act- 
ing in the name of the law. Begging is not 
allowed.” 


THE FAIR. 


75 


U I act here in the name of the law,” rejoined 
the Councilor. “ This is within my district — I 
am superintendent of police here. It’s my busi- 
ness to order here.” 

“ You may give orders to your landlady, but 
not to the gendarmes.” 

This loud dispute drew the attention of the 
bystanders. The sergeant of gendarmes came 

up. 

“ I beg your pardon, Herr Councilor,” said 
he. “This gendarme has been stationed here 
only three days, and does not understand the 
circumstances.” 

He then took the gendarme aside. 

“But I was right,” said the latter. 

“ Certainly you were,” replied the sergeant. 
“ But you acted stupidly in opposing the richest 
and most powerful man in the district. You 
might have free quarters every day at his house, 
if you’d ride over and tickle him by asking if he 
had any commands.” 

The gendarme retired much edified. He had 
become acquainted with the “circumstances.” 

“ The impudent fellow !” growled the Coun- 
cilor, who had, nevertheless, grown more com- 
posed, and was only growling and fuming to 
himself. 

“ Never mind him,” said Schrader. “ Get 
angry about something worth the while. How 
stands it with your daughter and Herr von 
Katen ?” 

“Really,” exclaimed the stout man, getting 
into a new passion ; “ you’re right. Here’s some- 
thing a man ought to be angry about. How 
could you vex me by sending them off to- 
gether ?” 

“ Yex you ? I supposed that I was soon to 
be able to congratulate you. The pair were so 
cozy together w r hen I came in, and in your own 
presence, and here, too, among so many thou- 
sands of people, where they could not possibly 
have met by accident.” 

“ Brother, don’t talk about it ; you’ll drive 
me crazy.” 

“ God forbid ! But tell me, does the wed- 
ding take place soon ?” 

“ Wedding ! — I tell you there’s nothing to 
take place between those tw 7 o.” 

“ Nothing ? Pshaw ! Why, he’ll soon be 
Financial Councilor.; for this very day he has 
been appointed Assistant in the Finance Minis- 
try ; and by-and-by he will be Privy Councilor 
of Finance, and then Finance Minister. And 
then about her. Why, you would not be very 
unwilling to hear people address your daughter 
as ‘ Your Excellency?’ ” 

“ I tell you there’ll nothing come of it. I 
don’t want any thing to do w T ith those poor 
nobles. They must be always creeping to get 
up in the world, for there’s nothing solid 
behind.” 

“ Well, but when a man’s got something solid, 
safe, and fast, it seems to me that it might be 
a very pleasant thing to make one’s appearance 
among folks as the father-in-law 7 of a Minister, 
and to enjoy what heaven has bestowed upon 


one. And it isn’t such a bad thing for such a 
father-in-law 7 to be made much of by all the 
first nobles at court ; and to be the patron of 
great and small ; for it’s to the Minister of 
Finance, he who holds the purse, that every 
body has to go begging — the other Ministers 
and the Prince himself very often.” 

“ But I’ve already promised the girl to some- 
body else.” 

“ But the girl may unfortunately like this 
young man better than she does that other : and 
the young man, again, loves the girl.” 

“ You don’t know any thing about such mat- 
ters. You are a bachelor. You know nothing 
about love. What’s the truth about these tw r o? 
She w r ould like to be a baroness ; and he would 
like to have my money. That’s all the love 
there is.” 

“ So that’s what you mean by love ! It 
seems to me that I have read something quite 
different from this in the eyes of that couple. 
Moreover, I don’t blame the girl if she would 
like to be a ‘ Gracious Lady.’ Why shouldn’t 
she have ambition ? her father has alw'ays been 
ambitious. Very likely she thinks of her father 
at the same time. For when the son-in-law is 
in high favor, w 7 hat’s to hinder the father-in- 
law from being appointed Privy Commissioner, 
and decorated with a Commandant’s cross, or 
even be made a noble of — especially w 7 hen he’s 
rich ; for they always like to see rich people at 
court?” 

The fat Councilor fidgeted very uneasily upon 
his chair. He drank sometimes in long draughts, 
sometimes in short eager ones, winked with his 
eyes, w 7 histled, and, in short, went through all 
the movements w T hich, in many people, denote 
a violent struggle within them. At last, he 
broke out with : 

“ That’s enough ; I’ve given my w 7 ord.” 

“ Have you, indeed ? and to w r hom ? To 
that shabby Justice, to that rascally plebeian, to 
whose son a farmer wouldn’t give his daughter. 
Pshaw ! There’s a great difference between 
young Master Freddy, the rude son of this dis- 
gusting fellow, and the Assessor of Finance, the 
aristocratic son of one of the first houses in the 
country. There’s a very great difference for 
the poor girl, and for the father-in-law.” 

“Do be still ! What can I do ? A man 
must keep his w 7 ord.” 

“ Pooh !” 

“ What’s the use of talking when it’s too 
late?” The Councilor spoke these words in a 
tone rather apologetic than angry. 

“ Too late ! When is it ever too late to 
amend a foolish action?” 

“ I expect the old man and his son every 
moment. I have appointed to meet them here, 
and they must be here soon. The betrothal is 
to be celebrated to-day. We are going to sur- 
prise the young folk.” 

“ A fine surprise for your poor daughter, to 

be dragged to a fair like a piece of . God 

forgive me for the expression that I was about 
to apply to such an admirable and beautiful 


76 


ANNA HAMMER. 


maiden ! But, my old friend, I can’t help re- 
proaching you from my very heart for bringing 
your daughter to the fair, like an article of mer- 
chandise. May God forgive you !” 

The Councilor grew more and more uneasy. 

A servant came up to Schrader, and spoke to 
him in a low voice. 

“ We are called for,” said Schrader to Gollz. 
“We will be back in half an hour,” said he, 
turning to the Councilor. 

Both then went out. 

The Councilor sat alone for a few minutes. 
His servant had attended the ladies. The two 
German students had also been gone for some 
time. He did not appear to like being alone, 
and kept looking impatiently and uneasily upon 
every side. This did not last long, for company 
soon came in. 

Through the crowd came steering up to him 
a person who, in many particulars might have 
passed for his brother upon a diminished scale, 
as was shown, in not the most advantageous 
manner, by his being only a little less broad and 
fat though considerably smaller than the Coun- 
selor. He was dressed in an elaborate but 
tasteless style, and was overladen with jewelry. 
The order upon the little man’s coat depended 
from so long and ugly a ribbon that the very 
peasants pointed at it with a grin. When he 
saw the Councilor at a distance, his face clear- 
ed up into an expression which he intended to 
be one of friendly respect, but which amounted 
only to a grimace. When he came up to his 
large, fat friend it was laughable to see how he 
fell upon him with a shake of the hand and an 
embrace, and time after time denominated him 
his most cherished, most honored, and dearest 
friend. Any one who was unaware of the rela- 
tions between them would have thought the old 
proverb, “ w r ho would marry the daughter must 
flatter the mother,” had here an analogous 
counterpart, though in a form not always to be, 
looked for. The Councilor w T as at last obliged 
to push the man unceremoniously away from him. 

“ Well then sit down you old simpleton,” 
said he half-offended, “ and tell us Where you’ve 
been. I’ve been waiting for you more than an 
hour.” 

“ I must certainly beg your pardon most 
earnestly, my most honored friend. But one 
is’nt always master of his own time, especially 
we poor officers. You rich landholders are bet- 
ter off. Ah, I have always expressed it as 
my most decided wish : If I could only be a 
landholder !” 

He interrupted himself with his usual laugh 
at his own wit, and then went on': 

“ There was every thing in the world to be 
seen to before I could set out : here was a se- 
cretary, there was a constable wanting direc- 
tions ; here was a petitioner who must be heard ; 
and then I had to stop ever so long on the fron- 
tier — ” 

4t What ! Did they make any difficulty with 
you ?” 

“ Good heavens ! with me ! But I had some 


arrangements to make there too. — I can tell you 
about it,” he added, mysteriously, “in confidence. 
They are on the track of a very dangerous state 
criminal, who, they say, is dodging about the 
frontiers here! In fact — a thing which never 
in my life happened to me but twice before — 
there’s a large reward offered for his apprehen- 
sion.” 

“ What do they say he has been doing ?” 

“ Heaven knows. But though I keep the 
new goings-on at court in my eye, and see a 
little behind the vail that hides them from the 
masses, yet it is necessary that I should speak 
the least possible about it.” He said this in a 
most mysterious manner. 

“ You make me curious.” 

“ Let us say nothing about it. Such things 
should be talked about only wffien two friends 
are sitting alone together in a chamber with the 
door locked.” 

“ But, my good friend, I miss your son. 
Where have you left him ?” 

“We had the honor to meet Mademoiselle, 
your daughter, and there w T as no keeping my 
lad back. He made a straight flight to her 
side. He’s a regular limb. You’ll have great 
sport with him. A little blunt and plain-spoken, 
but honest and frank ; and then, what’s the great 
thing, what a grip he has on the money-bag. 
He’s no spendthrift or squanderer.” 

“ Hum, hum,” said the other somewhat du- 
biously. 

A very odd-looking couple here attracted the 
attention of the little fat man. By a booth at 
no great distance stood an old sub-officer of 
gigantic stature, very meagre, but uncommonly 
large boned, with some half dozen orders and 
decorations upon his smoothly buttoned uni- 
form ; by his side stood a woman of the middle 
class, proportionately tall, but very fat, with a 
thoroughly sub-officerish countenance, and dress- 
ed in very gay attire, much over-ornamented. 
Either of them alone would have been striking, 
but the two together secured involuntary atten- 
tion. 

“ Ho. ho,” said the little fat man, after look- 
ing at them for a while. “ There’s old Sub- 
officer Long, from the fortress, and the vener- 
able Mademoiselle Blewstone.” 

“ They come here every year to make pur- 
chases,” said the Councilor, indifferently. 

“ I know it ; but I must step out and speak to 
them. The sub-officer is the old Commandant’s 
right hand, and Mademoiselle is his left hand.” 

He laughed, and continued : “ Yes, yes ; his 

left hand. Don’t that make you think of a left- 
handed wedding. Twenty years ago she was 
his washerwoman in the regiment. She went 
through all his campaigns with him” — he laugh- 
ed again — “and now she’s the old bachelor’s 
housekeeper. You know I’m Justiciary up 
there — that puts a couple of hundred dollars a 
year into my pocket, and nothing to do for it — 
especially when one keeps on the Commandant’s 
right side.” 

“ And yet,” said the Councilor, in an almost 


THE FAIR. 


77 


chilling tone, “ it is not a pleasant post any way. 
I couldn’t be up there for a single moment. I 
teel frozen always when I only see from a 
distance the cold rocks and the long walls and 
gray towers. I’m glad I am not your fellow- 
countryman.” 

“ Yes, yes, it isn’t quite right up there. There 
are many terrible secrets hidden in the holes and 
oellars.” 

“ And all sorts of things, and plenty of them 
at that, which never come to light.” 

“ We mustn’t speak about that. — Here’s to 
our lucky meeting again, my dear old friend !” 

The little fat man went up to the odd-looking 
couple, in company with whom he was after a 
while lost among the crowd. 

The Councilor was again sitting alone, all 
alone in that great arbor. He seemed to grow 
dissatisfied again. He cast a glance at the 
living mass without the arbor, and at the empty 
space within it. This look became almost one 
of anxiety as it penetrated into the dusky back- 
ground of thick shrubbery. He turned his eyes 
suddenly away, and suffered them to sweep 
over the distance, but they fell upon the fortress, 
that with its long walls and gray towers, rising 
steeply above the cold rocks, lay directly before 
him, at some distance indeed, but still quite near 
enough to furnish to a busy imagination outlines 
for the gloomiest pictures of prison life — its 
solitude, its privations, its agonies. 

The Councilor shuddered so that the chair 
creaked under him. He gulped down a glass 
of wine, and shuddered only the more. He 
turned his eyes, by a strong effort away from 
the rocks and its sombre buildings, and involun- 
tarily they pierced again into the solitary gloom 
of the arbor ; he wished to direct them upon the 
animated plain, but they glided past, and became 
fastened upon the unwelcome rocks. 

“It’s scandalous to leave me here alone,” 
said he, pettishly. 

A small female figure stood before him, 
slender, yet plump-looking, with eyes and hair 
as black as a coal, red pouting lips, and a com- 
plexion which was not certainly white, and yet 
was not exactly yellow or brown ; but it was so 
clear and transparent that the quick fiery blood 
could be seen coursing through. Her full bosom 
was barely covered by a bright red handker- 
chief. 

“ All alone, my rich gentleman, with the 
pretty gold trinkets,” said she to the surprised 
and almost frightened Councilor with a dash of 
roguish familiarity, looking around her at the 
same time. “ I want to play something for you 
— a merry tune,” sweeping her hands over the 
strings of her guitar. 

The Councilor made a motion for her to 
leave. ‘'Be off' with you,” said he, gruffly. 

“Don’t you like to hear music, my rich 
gentleman ? Would you rather I should tell 
you your fortune ?” 

The eyes of the Councilor opened wide. 

“Can you tell what’s going to happen?” 
asked he. 


“ To be sure I can. I can read men’s fortunes 
from their hand, from their face, from the stars. 
Reach here your hand, my rich gentleman with 
the beautiful orders.” 

She spoke in a solemn, insinuating tone. 

The Councilor fidgeted uneasily upon his 
seat. He peered about the arbor with a look 
in which might be read the question, “ Shall I 
venture it for once ? I’m alone here — nobody 
will ever know it.” He looked inquiringly into 
the great dark eyes of the girl, as though he 
would read there whether she would prophesy 
good or bad fortune to him. 

“ Only try it,” said she, in a wheedling tone. 
“ I’ll tell you your fortune. You’ve always had 
good fortune, but a man always wants more 
lu«k. I’ll tell you your fortune, my rich gen- 
tleman.” 

“But the bad fortune too,” said he rather to 
himself than to the girl. 

“ One shouldn’t think about the bad fortune ; 
yet it will come.” 

She took his hand ; he suffered her to do so, 
half willingly, half unwillingly. She looked 
closely at it, counted and measured the lines and 
furrows ; looked searchingly into his face, and 
then again at his hand. He permitted it all 
without opposition, and with visible anxiety. 

“ You have had much good-fortune, sir.” 

He said nothing. 

“You have become a rich man by your own 
industry.” 

Still he kept silence. 

“ You have no crimes to reproach yourself 
with.” 

He grew impatient. “ You were to speak to 
me of the future,” said he, in an undertone. 

“ You have true friends,” she went on quietly. 

He made no reply. 

She too was silent. A pause ensued. She 
looked at him with an air of embarrassment. 
The drops of sweat stood on his brow. Why 
would she speak only of the past ? Why would 
she not speak of the future ? Why was she 
silent ? And why did she look at him with such 
perplexity ? 

“You were to speak to me of the future ;” he 
said again. 

“What will you give me, sir?” she asked, 
with a crafty smile. 

“That’s it, is it, you serpent?” thought he 
to himself, and breathed more freely ; but he had 
not courage enough to utter it aloud. He drew 
out a well-filled purse, and selected a piece of 
money, which he gave to the girl. 

“ Beware,” said the gipsy, then, “of the first 
man that comes to you. He will bring you bad 
luck.” 

She disappeared, laughing. Just then a young 
man approached the arbor. He had an awk- 
ward aspect, and his whole appearance was 
rather rude and rough. At the same moment 
the full purse was snatched from the Councilor 
by a sudden, violent grasp from behind. 

“ The devil ! seize the scoundrel !” he ex- 
claimed with all his might; but a ta’I ■•••< in 


78 


ANNA HAMMER. 


a green jacket and yellow breeches, with a 
bright red neckerchief and a white straw hat, 
disappeared as swiftly as an arrow through the 
rear entrance of the arbor, leaping over tables, 
and flinging the chairs aside in his flight. The 
young man was standing before the bereaved 
gentleman. 

‘'What’s broke there, old gentleman?” he 
inquired, laughing aloud. “ You screamed out 
like a savage.” 

It may be well imagined that the Councilor 
was in no very rose-water humor. Bewildered 
at the bold robbery, vexed at the loss, which 
was considerable, the loud laugh and pert speech 
of the young man could naturally only increase 
his vexation. It seemed as though his wrath 
was on the point of bursting out, when he threw 
a look of keen distress upon the young man who 
stood there. Doubtless the prophecy of the gipsy 
occurred to him, that the first man who ap- 
proached him should bring him bad luck. He 
recoiled a few steps involuntarily. 

“ Well, old gentleman, what’s broke now ?” 
said the young man, repeating his question. 

Whether it was that the pain of the loss act- 
ually endured got the better of the apprehension 
of an imaginary misfortune, or whether the Coun- 
cilor had suddenly convinced himself that the 
one who had seized his purse, and not the young 
man before him, was the first person who had ap- 
proached him : — whatever the cause might be, 
he went up to the latter, and answered in a sor- 
rowful tone : 

“ My purse ! There goes an impudent thief 
with my purse ! spring after him, Frederick ; get 
my property back again. The rascal has got a 
white hat, and a bi'ight green jacket, and my 
purse, my full purse !” 

The young man remained perfectly still, laugh- 
ing all the while. “ Old gentleman, said he,” 
“ why should I go running like a fool after the 
fellow ? There are a hundred rascals here, with 
white hats and green jackets. My bones are 
worth more to me than your purse.” 

“ Frederick, you are a heartless fellow. Now- 
run for ’Rieke’s sake, for the sake of my daugh- 
ter, for the sake of your — ” 

He stopped short. The prophecy of the gipsy 
again shot across his mind, and at the same time 
the conviction that he saw the young man befoi'e 
he did the robber. 

“My betrothed?” asked the young man. 
“ Seriously, my dear Counciloi', don’t say a word 
about your purse. Who can hunt out among 
the thousands of men and thieves the unknown 
rascal ? Don’t make yourself ridiculous ; and 
don’t say a word about the matter. That’s the 
only reasonable course. And now let’s talk 
about my betrothed. My father said something 
about to-day.” 

“ I thought, Fritz, you were coming back here 
with the girl,” replied the Councilor evasively. 
“Your father said he left you behind in her 
company.” 

“ Oh, she had company already, and sighed, 
and turned her eyes away from me so often that 


I couldn’t stand it. When w r e are once married, 
I’ll put a stop to this sighing and turning the 
eyes away. I thought it would be more sensible 
to have a talk with you about the betrothal, 
the wedding, her setting out, and all that. 
There’s something substantial about that.” 

“Hum, hum, Fritz! Harkye, a more impu- 
dent scoundrel I never came across in all my 
life. The fellow took my purse right among all 
these people, in broad daylight — my full purse 
right out of my own hands.” 

“He couldn’t have done any thing with an 
empty purse, father-in-law,” said Fritz. “ What 
do you think ? How long had we better put the 
wedding off? I’ve been living alone now for 
more than six months on the fai'm that my father 
has let me have ; and you know, old gentleman, 
that it is not good for a man to be alone.” 

“ Hum, hum, Fritz — ” 

Schrader and Goltz now returned. The 
Councilor was relieved from an embarrassment 
by no means trifling. These two did not return 
alone. His daughter and cousin were in their 
company. The Baron von Katen had absented 
himself. The Councilor’s daughter seemed 
agitated, and cast perplexed and anxious looks 
at her father. The cousin, too, looked shyly at 
the fat gentleman. Something must have hap- 
pened which could not be concealed from him ; 
but which they yet feared to tell him. 

Schrader, with his usual coolness, commenced 
the conversation. “ My good brother Councilor,” 
said he, “I’ve brought you something agreeable; 
but I’ve also got soinething unpleasant to impart 

to vou.” 

•/ 

“ Something unpleasant again, so soon !” 
sighed the Councilor. 

“ The agreeable thing I have brought you 
is, in the fiirst place, your lovely daughter; in 
the second place, your lovely cousin ; in the 
third place, my lovely friend Goltz ; and in the 
fourth place, my own self.” 

“ And the unpleasant thing — let us hear what 
that is.” 

“ Are you so inquisitive about that, my friend ? 
It seems to me, after such a fine and lovely four- 
leafed clover as that — and you know a four-leafed 
clover brings good luck — I know that you put 
faith in such signs — and, in fact, the Spirit of 
Nature, which, in the long run, presides over 
good and ill fortune, manifests to mankind bv 
natural signs, and frequently by the most sim- 
ple, in a wonderful manner, their future fortune 
and misfortunes — this can only arise from the 
fact that mankind have a perception — ” 

“ But, for Heaven’s sake, Schrader, come to 
the end J” 

“ To the unpleasant tidings, you mean. No, 
brother, the unpleasant is not the end of all 
things. For my own self, I belong to those 
people who believe in Heaven and in eternal 
bliss.” 

“ You will drive me to desperation. You 
know how you can torment me with such threat- 
ening announcements of misfortune. ’Rieke, I 
beg of you, do you speak out.” 


THE FAIR. 


79 


The girl looked beseechingly at Schrader, 
who continued : 

‘‘Well, well, for your daughter’s sake, then. 
But do you be thankful for her. The whole 
story is a mere joke. Your daughter has had 
her gold cross stolen at the fair.” 

“ Stolen ! stolen again, already ! The cross ! 
the gold cross ! off from her bosom !” 

“ Well, and what does it all amount to ? One 
cross the less in your family. How can you be 
so annoyed about it ? Without a cross, people 
have sorrows and miseries enough in life.” 

“ ’Rieke ! ’Rieke ! How was it possible ? 
The cross that I presented to you — presented 
at your baptism — the memento of your sainted 
mother !” 

The fat gentleman was really very much 
affected by the intelligence, and the drops of 
sweat poured from his forehead. The tones of 
his voice sounded hollow 5 his eyes wandered 
about unsteadily. A sort of inward discompo- 
sure manifested itself in him, together with a 
distress, of which he was rarely thought to be 
capable. 

His daughter was much affected. “ Forgive 
me, father,” said she, “for causing you this sor- 
row. I knew how dear this memorial of my 
mother was to you.” 

“What is there to forgive?” said Schrader. 
“ What could you do, -when in the crow T d an im- 
pudent scoundrel snatched the cross and chain 
from your neck ?” 

•‘You, too, my child. Ah, the boldness of 
the thieves is great. This is an unlucky day, a 
terribly unlucky day for me. Let us break up 
at once, and go back home.” 

“ But, my friend, how can the loss of a few 
dollars affect you so ?” 

“ The few dollars, the paltry few dollars — 
what do I care for them ? Oh, you do not know 
— you do not know ! Let us go home.” 

“ But, devil take it,” broke in Schrader, de- 
cidedly, “ don’t act like an old woman. At all 
events, wait and see whether this jewel of all 
the world won’t come back again.” 

“ How can it come back ? Will you never 
be done with your jesting ?” 

“I am not jesting. The Baron von Katen 
started at once after the scoundrel. A trusty 
fellow who was in my company went with him. 
Perhaps they’ll catch the rascal yet — very 
probably, for von Katen is a nimble lad, and 
his comrade isn’t afraid of the devil himself!” 

“ The Baron von Katen gone after the thief. 
Good heavens ! if he only brings back the cross 
to me ! You don’t know — you don’t know.” 

He looked up, as if imploringly to heaven. 
He then cast a glance, half-contemptuous half- 
angry, at the aspirant, Fritz, who was sitting 
by, with a somewhat stupid countenance. He 
seemed to call to mind the young fellow’s re- 
fusal to follow the thief who had carried off the 
purse. At length his eye pierced among the 
crowd, as though he might at any moment de- 
tect the person who m'vs bringing back the 
purse. 


It was quite a different person who pressed 
forward. It was the little fat Justice Friedel. 
followed by the couple whom he had gone to 
seek — the sub-officer and the housekeeper of 
the Commandant of the fortress. 

It was a spectacle in every way exciting to 
the risible muscles to see the three pressing 
and forcing their way onward. First came 
the fat little Justice, sweating and coughing, 
and breaking his way with a thick bamboo 
cane, almost as tall as himself. By his side, as 
though tied to him, the tall housekeeper, with 
her resplendent party-colored garments and yel- 
low bonnet 5 her face as red as that of a mar- 
ket-woman, a full head above that of her com- 
panion ; and aiding him, with her hands, in 
breaking his way, dealing out pushes now to 
the right, now to the left, right above his head. 
Behind these two, in all the conscious dignity 
of an old soldier, was the grizzly sub-officer, 
magnificent with his white mustache and the 
orders upon his breast, looking with vast con- 
tempt on the “ civil” crowd that parted before 
the puffs and pushes of the Commissioner and 
the housekeeper, now scolding and cursing, now 
laughing and pointing with their fingers. 

The countenance of the Justice wore a 
sort of sourish-sweet expression. The sweet- 
ness belonged to the housekeeper, with whom 
he was conversing. Whether the sourness was 
owing to the attention of the public, or to the 
fact that the tall dame, and consequently her 
military attendant, would not be separated from 
him, so that he was obliged, against his will, to 
present them before his distinguished and ele- 
gant acquaintances — who can say? 

Perplexed he certainly was when he came 
into the arbor ; and, leading the tall woman be- 
hind the chairs of the company into the other 
division of the booth, he said to her, in a some- 
what subdued tone : “ Here, my dear Madame 

Blewstone, sit down here and rest yourself ; and 
you, too, my worthy sub-officer ! Let us crack 
a bottle together.” 

The Councilor looked still more angry and 
wrathful. There was a constraint upon the 
whole Company. Even the rough son of the 
Justice seemed to labor under some embarrass- 
ment. But Schrader’s eyes sparkled as he per- 
ceived who the persons were that had accom- 
panied the Justice. He was the first to break 
the silence. 

“ Bad times, Herr Justice ; every where crimes, 
murder, robbery, and theft. And it’s no better 
yonder in your country.” 

“ Alas, no ; the courts can’t any longer get 
through the thick mass of indictments.” 

“ I believe that,” laughed Schrader, pointing 
to the thick figure of the Justice. “ Thick in- 
dictments and thick judges. It may well be a 
difficult matter to get through.” 

“ You love to be joking always,” replied the 
Justice. “ In the meanwhile, it is true that 
crime gets the upper hand every day ; and we 
have the greatest difficulty with the impudent 
populace. You can tell us a bit of a story up 


80 


ANNA HAMMER. 


there about that, Herr Sub-officer,” he added, 
turning to that personage. 

“ I never come into contact with these com- 
mon rascals,” said the officer, with great 
gravity. 

“Yes, yes, my dear fellow, there are other 
criminals than mere common rascals.” 

The sub-officer made no reply. 

“ “ Are the prisons in your country as full 
and overflowing as they are with us?” asked 
Schrader, in an indifferent tone, rather of the 
Justice than of the sub-officer. 

“Ah, every where, every where,” replied the 
Justice ; “ there’s no more room any where.” 

“ There’s room enough with us yet,” re- 
marked the housekeeper of the Commandant of 
the fortress. 

"There won’t be much a great while long- 
er,” growled the sub-officer. 

“ Couldn’t a few persons get good accommo- 
dations in your tower ?” inquired the house- 
keeper of him. 

Schrader drew nearer to the officer and the 
woman. He pointed to the prison structure 
which lay in the full brightness of the sun which 
was approaching its setting. 

“Is the tower there also occupied?” he 
asked. 

“ Which one do you mean ?” 

“ The low round one to the right, upon the 
edge of the steep rock.” 

The sub-officer merely nodded. But Ma- 
dame Blewstone replied briskly : 

“ Why not ? to be sure it is.” 

“ A very pleasant, secure residence. They 
only place great criminals there ; do they?” 

The sub-officer nodded his head again. The 
woman had fallen into conversation with the 
Justice. 

“ Nobody but robbers and such like ?” asked 
Schrader. 

The sub-officer shook his head. 

“ Are there many persons in the tower ?” 

“ Not just now.” 

“ How long have you served up there ?” 

“About twenty years.” 

“ In that time you’ve seen a good many 
people coming and going.” 

“ Not many.” 

“ Those who come to you don’t very often go 
away again.” 

“ Just so.” 

“ There are a good many state criminals with 
you, I suppose.” 

“ Very likely.” 

“ Do they receive better treatment than other 
prisoners ?” 

“ Why should they ?” asked the functionary 
in surprise. It was the first time that he had 
receded from his dignified sub-official indiffer- 
ence, 

“I should suppose — ” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the housekeeper, 
“to be sure there’s a difference. You can’t 
treat a count just as you would a common 
*eoundrel.” 


“ My good woman, you don’t know any thing 
about the matter,” said the officer, resuming 
all his former dignity. 

The dame was affronted. “ I don’t know 
any thing about it! Yes, look ye! Who is it 
then that has charge of the lady ?” 

“ My good woman !” exclaimed the sub- 
officer, in a tone so threatening as to take from 
the excited woman all power of speech. 

‘‘Then you have ladies also in custody up 
there ?” remarked Schrader. 

Neither made any reply. 

“ There are, like enough, a good many 
secrets hidden up there,” he said, turning to 
the housekeeper. 

Schrader seemed to have abandoned the at- 
tempt upon the taciturnity of the sub-officer, and 
to have made up his mind to try his fortune with 
the lady. So he went on to attack her feminine 
weak side — a secret. 

She nodded her head as the officer had done 
before. 

“ You could tell many singular things.” 

“ Maybe I could.” 

“ How many persons, in their troubles, have 
had recourse to you and your tender heart !” 

“Like enough.” 

“ And you must have tried to alleviate many 
a woe.” 

“We must do what humanity bids, as far as 
we are able.” 

“You can do a great deal with the brave old 
Commandant. 

“ He knows that in me he has a trusty per- 
son.” 

“ Indeed he does ; and one to whom he can 
confide the most important secrets.” 

“ That he can.” 

“ Female prisoners, up there — prisoners of 
state, I mean — and so of good family and of 
edueation — I suppose are put under your solo 
charge.” 

“ How so ?” She did not appear to under- 
stand him. 

“ I suppose you are the only female compan- 
ion with whom they can converse.” 

She was silent. 

“There are no officers’ wives there?” 

“No, only the wives of the sub-officers and 
soldiers.” 

“ The ladies who are confined there, must 
often be anxious to impart their sorrows to a 
sympathizing heart.” 

She made no reply. 

He despaired of gaining any further informa- 
tion. Fortune was against him. The Com- 
mandant’s housekeeper was as incommunicative 
as the sub-officer. 

Baron von Katen drew near, with sparkling 
eyes and countenance beaming with joy. He 
was followed by a long, lean, large-boned man. 
in a brown jacket, leather breeches, broad-brim- 
med gray hat, with an old brown fiddle under 
his arm. In short, by Geigenfritz. 

The Councilor’s daughter sprang up from her 
seat when she perceived the young man. Her 


THE FAIR. 


eyes also sparkled when she caught the gleam 
ot his. The Councilor opened his mouth some- 
what between fear and hope, at the sight of the 
new-comers. The Baron went dirctly up to 
the maiden, and almost bowed his knee before 
her as he presented to her the recovered cross 
■with the silver chain. 

“ This is the happiest day of my life,” said 
he, with a tender look. 

The Councilor leaped up too — in very truth, 
the fat man leaped up. He seemed to have 
grown young again. He had all at once be- 
come a new man. He took the cross from his 
daughter’s hand, and pressed it to his lips. He 
then kissed his daughter, who was glowing with 
happiness, and gratefully pressed the hand of 
the young man. 

“ Sir, God will repay you for this.” 

“And you too!” said Schrader, who had 
approached. 

“ What can I do?” asked the Councilor, in a 
low tone, as he fastened the cross again upon 
the fair neck of his daughter. 

“ Oh, how glad I am !” said the girl. 

“For the cross or the theft?” asked Schra- 
der. 

The Baron was obliged to relate how he had 
succeeded in getting possession of the stolen 
treasure. He briefly told, that he and Geigen- 
fritz had followed the thief, of whom they never 
lost sight, into the the thicket; had seized him, 
flung him down, and taken the cross away from 
him. Renewed thanks followed this explanation. 

“Did you give the thief a regular cudgeling?” 
asked young Master Frederick. 

The Baron looked haughtily at him, without 
making any reply. 

Geigenfritz also, who had remained quietly 
in the back ground, had now to come forward, 
to receive his share of thanks. 

“ I will see that you are rewarded,” said the 
Councilor to him. 

“Leave that to me,” interrupted Schrader. 
“ Let every body attend to his own.” 

Geigenfritz now turned to young Frederick. 
“ He who cudgels, will get cudgeled back again. 
Remember the Priest’s wood, my young mas- 
ter.” 

The young gentleman seemed to have been 
reminded of some unpleasant history. He look- 
ed sheepishly but maliciously at the fiddler — but 
said nothing. The Councilor, however, had his 
attention excited. 

“What was that about the Priest’s wood?” 
he asked. 

“ Nothing particular. I understand fortune- 
telling a little,” answered Geigenfritz, very 
gravely. 

The Councilor shuddered too. He also look- 
ed somewhat shyly at the fiddler. With a deep 
voice Geigenfritz went on : 

“I could also tell you a good many things, 
Herr Councilor Akhoflf.” 

“ Do you know me, my friend?” 

“Inside, outside, and by heart. Your most 
secret thoughts are not hidden from me.” 

F 


The Councilor turned pale, and was disquiet- 
ed. “No one but God knows my thoughts.” 

“ Don’t fall into temptation, Herr Councilor. 
Think of the cross that will again be in your 
house.” 

The Councilor started, and grew still more 
discomposed. A question hung on the tip of 
his tongue, but he appeared not to have cour- 
age to utter it. 

“ Remember what that gipsy told you, hardly 
half an hour ago.” 

“ What ! what ! What do you know about 
that ?” 

“ That what she foretold to you has not yet 
come to pass.” 

“ What is it that has not yet come to pass ?” 

“ The thief was not the first person that came 
near you.” 

“Man!” exclaimed the Councilor, “do you 
understand magic ?” 

“ I can tell you much more, Herr Councilor.” 

“ Speak out ! No, no, don’t speak out ! But 
what do you know about the cross ?” 

“ I know about the cross just w T hat you know 
about it, Herr Councilor,” he continued slowly, 
almost solemnly : “ That cross was given you 
by your sainted wife. It was in a peculiar hour. 
Something had taken place that should not have 
taken place. You swore, when you accepted 
the cross, that it should never take place again, 
and you have kept your word. You swore that 
to your noble wife, and your noble wife was 
grateful to you for it as long as she lived. At 
the same time you besought the dear God that 
he would suffer that cross to be a sign that it 
should be well with you and yours ; and when 
that cross should leave your house, it should be 
a token that some great and severe misfortune 
impended over you and your family. And had 
it not been for that brave young fellow there” — 
pointing to the Baron — “ that misfortune would 
have burst upon you and your family.” 

The Councilor gazed with fixed eyes at the 
soothsayer. 

“Was it so, Councilor?” 

“ It was so.” 

“Now, sir,” the tall brown man concluded, 
in a louder voice, “ do not then expose your 
daughter to be beaten.” 

These words stood apparently in no connec- 
tion with the history of the cross, but they must 
certainly have had some deep significance for 
the Councilor ; for he sank back upon his chair, 
and covered his face wfith both hands. 

Geigenfritz went into the back part of the 
arbor, the guests in which he had been for some 
time watching with a keen glance. He here 
took a position opposite the sub-officer, looked 
at him for a while in silence, and then said to 
him, “ Good-day, comrade Long !” 

The sub-officer and his companion had been 
witnesses of the circumstances which had just 
transpired ; and they had made a deep impres- 
sion upon him, and had left behind a sort of 
reverence for the man of supernatural knowl- 
edge. But that a fortune-teller in a brown 


ANNA HAMMER. 


82 

jacket and leather breeches, should dare to 
address a sub-officer with six orders, and call 
him comrade, was too much for him. At the 
same time he was somewhat uneasy in his mind 
that a man who was utterly unknown to him, 
and who had made known secrets so deeply 
hidden, should know his name. 

“Do you know my name?” he asked, more 
in fear than in anger. 

Geigenfritz burst out into a jovial laugh. 
“ Why, shouldn’t I know my old comrade Long, 
who has smelt so much powder-smoke by my 
side, and with whom I have so often shared the 
straw in my bivouac ? Look at me, old friend.” 

“ Thunder and rain, Corporal — ” 

“Just so — your old Corporal.” 

“Now I know you again, my old comrade- 
heart — Bren — ” 

“ Brennessel !” 

“ Brennessel, or something like it — it’s all 
the same thing. We were always true com- 
rades. How could it happen that I didn’t know 
you again at once?” 

“ Never mind that. How goes it with you 
this ever so long ?” 

“How should it go. One grows old. But 
you — what are you about?” 

“ I have been invalided.” 

“Well, and what more. How goes it with 
you ?” 

“ As it always goes with an invalided soldier. 
He gets his florin a month, and may make much 
of it. But much he can’t make of it. There’s 
not much left for him but begging or stealing. 
But now he mustn’t either beg or steal. Many 
a one goes hungry, just because in his better 
days he has fought and bled for his country and 
his king. But in the meantime the officers and 
the generals don’t go hungry. It’s gone some- 
what better with me than all that. I neither 
beg nor steal. I play on the fiddle.” 

“ A soldier with half a dozen orders — for you 
have at least as many as I have — a corporal, to 
have to play on the fiddle !” 

“ Unless I liked to starve better. So it is, 
my old friend. A man can’t live on fol-de-lol 
and Princes’ thanks. But you keep wearing 
the uniform.” 

“ Always. I dare say I shall wear it to my 
dying day. I stop now up there in that nest on 
the rock. The duties are not very severe.” 

“ A turnkey ! oh, the devil !” exclaimed Gei- 
genfritz, somewhat contemptuously. 

The sub-officer was evidently abashed. He 
answered not a word. But the Commandant’s 
housekeeper could not refrain from standing up 
for the honor of her master ’s fortress. 

“ Herr Corporal,” said she, perhaps more 
tartly than she was herself aware of, “ our Ad- 
jutant-colonel commands a battalion of regular 
troops, and neither turnkeys nor vagabonds, if 
they do now and then condescend to let them- 
selves down and talk with vagabonds.” 

“ Your most obedient servant, my most charm- 
ing lady,” said Geigenfritz, making his best bow. 

Sub-officer Long understood the usages of 


society. In the tone of a military introduction 
or announcement, which you will, he said : 
“ Mamsell Blewstone, housekeeper of the Herr 
Commandant of the fortress, my good friend 
ci-devant corporal, Brennessel, possessor of sev- 
eral orders, my ancient friend and comrade.” 

The lady bowed, but still somewhat distant- 
ly ; Geigenfritz repeated his obeisance, but 
more gravely than at first. 

Schrader had ordered wine to be brought to 
them. 

“ Well, old field-comrades, pledge and drink 
to your mutual adventures, fights, wounds, and 
scars.” 

They touched glasses and drank. 

“ Allow me the honor, Mamsell Blewstone.” 

“ The honor is on my side, Herr Corporal.” 

The old friendship was renewed, the new one 
was formed. Wine and the remembrance of 
past events shared together, are powerful in- 
centives to friendship. 

“ We were a pair of true friends, Mamsell 
Blewstone. Your health.” 

“ Much obliged, Herr Corporal.” 

“ That Brennessel was always a regular limb, 
my good woman. Long life to him !” 

“ Long life to you, Herr Corporal !” 

“ This Long, Mamsell Blewstone. was always 
a model of courage. The Captain recommended 
him especially to me. ‘ Brennessel,’ said he to 
me, ‘ when there’s any fighting to be done, 
commend me to Long. But he’s too eager; he 
always wants to be at the enemy. I wouldn’t 
lose such a brave sub-officer for my life.’ Long 
life to my old friend Long, Mamsell.” 

“ Ah, Mamsell, a thousand devils couldn’t 
have held Brennessel back when we were going 
into action. He was always the first — always 
the fastest. And when the balls were whistling 
about him the maddest, then was he always the 
merriest. Zounds ! I’ve just thought of some- 
thing !” 

He paused thoughtfully, and suddenly grew 
grave. 

“Hark ye, friend,” he resumed, “you were 
always the first and the last in the bullet-shower, 
and no bullet has ever in all your life wounded 
you. Sabre-cuts and lance-punches enough 
you’ve had, but no bullet has ever touched you. 
How happened that ?” 

Geigenfritz too grew grave. 

“ There are reasons for that,” said he, myste- 
riously. 

“ Old comrade, let’s talk about that. Neither 
of us, perhaps, will ever go to war again. All 
the regiment used to say that you were bullet- 
proof. Was there any thing in it ?” 

“ Let us drink, comrade,” said Geigenfritz. 
none the less mysteriously. 

“ You old numskull — let us talk about that.” 

“What’s the use? We shall never want it 
again.” 

“ There certainly are men that are bullet- 
proof,” remarked the housekeeper, with an air 
of importance. “ The Adjutant-colonel knew 
one when he was young.” 


THE FAIR. 


83 


U To be sure there are such men,” replied 
Geigenfritz. 

“ A pretty art.” 

“ A beautiful art !” 

They looked about them, and drew up to- 
gether closely. 

“ one on ly understood that art. But Mam- 
sell, let us talk about something else.” 

“ Do you understand any thing about that art, 
Herr Corporal ?” she asked, drawing still closer 
to him. 

u 1 here was once a time when I busied my- 
self about such matters. I’ll tell you about it 
some other time, for I hope often to have the pleas- 
ure of seeing you again. But now I must learn 
more particularly how it goes with my old friend, 
whom I haven’t seen for so many years. Now, 
friend Long, what about your service up there ?” 

“Well enough now, for I have an easy post 
in the tower.” 

“ In the round tower, that springs up there to 
the right ?” pointing to the fortress. 

“ In that same.” 

“ What is your business there ? But wait : 
before you answer me, I must see about another 
bottle. This is empty.” 

He arose, and went up to Schrader, and 
whispered softly to him, “ Get the old woman 
away. I’m on the track ; and now, wine.” 

Returning to his company, he said, “ The old 
gentleman stands treat to-day. That ’ll do our 
old soldier-throats good. Meanwhile I’ve earned 
it, and you shall have your revenge when I come 
to see you at your old nest. Now don’t be of- 
fended, Mamsell Blewstone, at my talking about 
the ‘ nest.’ We call every fortress so.” 

“ I know that. I’ve been in the wars too, 
with the Herr Adjutant-colonel.” 

Schrader placed a couple of full bottles upon 
the table. 

“ Mamsell Blewstone,” said he, “here in the 
arbor is a very pleasant acquaintance of yours, 
whom you probably don’t recollect.” 

The lady was perplexed. 

“The Councilor,” continued Schrader, “has 
been telling us that you were acquainted in the 
family of the deceased Presidentess von Katen- 
The son of that lady is here, and would be very 
glad to speak with you.” 

The good dame turned pale. “ Ah, yes, I 
was acquainted in the family of the gracious 
Lady Presidentess. Whei’e is the dear lad, sir?” 

“ Follow me.” 

He went with her into the front portion of the 
arbor, where her acquaintance with the Baron 
was renewed. 

The two old soldiers were alone. 

“ Let us drink first. There. — Now tell me 
about your service up there.” 

“ Thank God, it isn’t very severe. I’ve only 
a couple of prisoners in the tower to look after. 
One gets through that in a little while.” 

“In what does your oversight consist?” 

“ Well, in the morning I take them bread and 
water ; at noon their dinner, and at evening 1 
visit their cells.” 


“ Is that all ?” 

“ Besides, I go the rounds of the sentinels 
now and then, and report to the Commandant. 
That’s all.” 

“ Really, old friend, that’s a very fair service, 
if you haven’t too many prisoners to attend to.” 

“ There ain’t many of them.” 

“ How many ?” 

“ Number One and Number Two.” 

“ No more ?” 

“No more for some years.” 

“ I thought the whole tower was full of pris- 
oners.” 

The sub-officer laughed, as it seemed, at the 
simplicity of his quondam comrade. 

“ Perhaps it’s only the very worst criminals 
who are in the tower.” 

“ So the Commandant says. Nobody can go 
into the tower but the Commandant, I, and sub- 
officer Lewald. We are his confidants.” 

“ What has Lewald to do in the tower?” 

“Why, nothing,” said Long, in some per- 
plexity. 

“TPerhaps you take turns in service.” 

“ No we don’t.” 

“ Well, what has he got to do in the tower?” 

“Let us drink, old comrade.” 

“ There’s some secret in the wind. It’s 
brave in you, old friend, to keep it to yourself.” 

“ So it is.” 

“Just tell us what your two prisoners have 
done.” 

“ I never troubled myself about it.” 

“ Have they never told you any thing about 
their lives ?” 

“ They can’t speak a word to me.” 

“ How! have you never talked with them?” 

“ Never.” 

“Then perhaps you don’t even know their 
names.” 

“Number One, and Number Two.” 

“ What does that mean ?” 

“ With us every one is known merely by his 
number.” 

“ What kind of people are they?” 

“ Don’t bother me.” 

“ Pooh ! After all, they’re only common 
rogues ; and you, as I told you, in your old age, 
have got to be only a common turnkey — with 
all your orders and decorations. I’d rather have 
my fiddle.” 

“ Ho, ho, comrade ! Don’t be so stuck-up 
with your old fiddle. 1 Turnkey’ !” 

“ Who must take victuals and drink to rogues.” 

“ But who has got an officer under his com- 
mand.” 

“ A fine officer, no doubt.” 

“ In his day there was no better officer rode 
before his squadron.” 

“ You old rogue, you’re bragging.” 

“May God strike me dead if I am.” 

“ Very well, that’s one of them. But you 
can’t make any thing out of Number Two. 
There’s some catch about him.” 

The sub-officer laughed. “In his time he 
used to be a learned doctor,” said he. 


84 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“ And Number Three?’' 

“There ain’t no Number Three in the tow- 
er.” 

“ But, my good friend. I can’t understand 
what your comrade Lewald has to do in the 
tower.” 

“ What’s that to me ? I assure you that 
there is no Number Three.” 

“ Then perhaps Number Three is dead or re- 
moved to another prison, and Lewald has charge 
of Number Four.” 

“Neither of all these.” 

“ Is there any Number Five or Six or Seven 
there ?” 

“ Missed fire again, old sharpshooter !” 

“Deuce take it! Then Number Nought is 
there.” 

“ You rogue ! You’re a witch-master !” ex- 
claimed the sub-officer in surprise. 

“ Have you just found that out, you old rascal. 
I will tell you something more. Your Number 
One and Number Two are a couple of dangerous 
fellows ; but Number Nought is still more dan- 
gerous ; and on that account Lewald has only 
him to look out for.” 

“ Well, well, that isn’t so bad.” 

“ And unless I am mistaken, Number Nought 
is of higher rank than the other two.” 

“ Pooh ! A Count isn’t much more than a 
Baron.” 

“ And you don’t know what these people have 
done ?” 

“ I don’t bother myself about that.” 

“ It’s a miserable life those poor fellows lead. 
Don’t they even come out into the open air?” 

“ Never set foot outside of their cells.” 

“ Not year in and year out ?” 

“ Not year out and year in.” 

“And the woman that’s there.” 

“ I know of no women.” 

“ Yet I rather suspect there is. Was there 
not a noble lady brought there one night not 
long ago ?” 

“ I’ve never seen her.” 

“ But wasn’t one brought there ?” 

“I don’t know any thing about it.” 

“ But your comrades know, don’t they ?” 

“I don’t know any thing about it.” 

“ Quite too great an honor for me, my wor- 
shipful gentlemen !” cried Mamsell Blewstone 
with a loud and delighted voice, taking her leave 
with many courtesies. She came back to where 
the two old soldiers were sitting. 

“Neighbor, it’s time that we take leave.” 

“ Another glass first, my dear Mamsell Blew- 
stone.” 

“Very much obliged, but you know, Herr 
Corporal, that in the fortress, every thing goes 
to the hour. If the Herr Commandant has only 
got the keys, we must remain out of doors all 
night.” 

“Don’t say that, my dear Madame. The 
Commandant won’t be so strict with you. You 
are his right hand.” 

“In service he makes no difference. He is 
just as strict with one as with another.” 


“ Oh yes ; but with a difference. You must 
have a great deal of trouble with him.” 

“ Yes, yes, he is sometimes very obstinate — 
as old age always makes people.” 

“ Look out then, and make one hand wash the 
other.” 

“ All-in-all, the service with him is no light 
one. I myself am no longer so young as I was. 
It’s oftentimes very hard for a single per- 
son.” 

Geigenfritz’s eyes flashed, as though an idea 
had suddenly come into his head. He, however, 
repressed every outward sign of emotion. 

“ God forbid, my dear Mamsell, that you 
should have to complain already ! In the full vigor 
of your age too ! Only look at us two old fel- 
lows ; and yet we don’t have to make any com- 
plaints.” 

“ Thank God, I’m pretty strong yet ; but I’m 
not so active as I was when I was younger.” 

“ Perhaps you have taken too much work upon 
yourself, and charge yourself with too many 
things. I know that this is the case with care- 
ful and faithful housekeepers. That their mas- 
ters may not be cheated by strangers, they keep 
taking more and more upon themselves, until 
finally they break down.” 

“ You have just hit it. Just so is it with me. 
But one can’t let one’s master be robbed and 
cheated.” 

“ You should get some trustworthy person to 
help you.” 

“ If I could only find such a person. But I 
never go out of the fortress : and nobody comes 
into it.” 

“Have you nobody among your relations?” 

“ Ah ! I haven’t heard any thing from my 
relations for a long time. They live more than 
five hundred miles from here.” 

“ If a trusty person was all, perhaps I could 
advise you.” 

“Let us hear, then.” 

“ But perhaps it would amount to nothing. 
The Commandant would not permit a perfect 
stranger to come into the fortress.” 

“Oh, as far as that goes, let me look out for 
that. The Herr Adjutant-colonel has himself 
often advised me to get some help. Just speak 
out.” 

“ But it won’t do. The child that I was 
thinking of is yet quite too young ; though she 
is certainly stout and capable.” 

“ Well, well, let me hear.” 

“It is my little grand-daughter, a girl of not 
quite fifteen years old. She — ” 

“ Your grand-daughter !” laughed out Sub- 
officer Long ; “ and fifteen years old ! Com- 
rade, twenty years ago you wasn’t married. 
You are an old boy !” 

“ It’s all very simple, and perfectly natural, 
my old friend. The child is my step-child.” 

“ Oh, then — ” 

“ You will like the child, Mamsell ; she is 
willing, obedient, and trusty. And if the Herr 
Commandant makes no objections — ” 

“ Leave that to me.” 


TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 


u Then you have only to set the time when I 
shall bring her for you to see.” 

The housekeeper reflected. Geigenfritz went 
on : 

u I don’t care about wages. I am sure that, 
under your care and instruction, the girl will 
learn things, and that’s worth more than 
wages.” 

‘‘ Harkye, Herr Corporal : when can you bring 
the child to me ?” 

“ Very soon.” 

“ On Monday ?” 

“ Yes, on Monday.” 

“ Let her bring her things with her. Then 
she can stay right on up there.” 

“ Won’t the Herr Commandant — ” 

“ No, he won’t. I’ll be your security for 
that. All’s settled, then. On Monday. And 
then we’ll talk more about the art of being 
bullet-proof.” 

“ It’s all settled.” 

“ But, neighbor, it’s high time to break up 
now.” 

“ One more glass at parting, my most re- 
spected Mamsell. Your health !” 

“ Thank you kindly.” 

Sub-officer Long and Mamsell Blewstone took 
their leave, and departed. Geigenfritz and 
Schrader went out in front of the arbor. 

“ They are there,” said Geigenfritz, pointing 
to the fortress. 

“Who?” 

“ All three : Count Arnstein, Captain Hor- 
berg. and Vorhoff. 

“ Are you certain ?” 

“ As good as certain.” 

“And the Princess?” 

“ Likely enough ; but I’m not sure.” 

“ So my intelligence indicates.” 

“ We shall perhaps find out more accurately. 
I’ve provided a place for Anna Hammer.” 

“ Where ?” 

“ Up there with the big housekeeper. She 
is to be her assistant — and ours.” 

“ You are a true devil’s helper !” 

“ Your most obedient servant.” 

The Councilor here joined them, saying, to 
Schrader : 

“ I’ve been thinking the matter over.” 

“ What matter ?” 

“About the girl. I won’t give her to that 
clownish fellow with the cudgel.” 

“ There spoke a noble father. The rest will 
take care of itself.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 

The monarch was dead. Who shall say 
whether the natural course of age put a period 
to his existence, or whether the shocks of for- 
tune hurried him to the grave before his time ? 
Well, he had numbered a long course of years, 
and his hair had been white, his eye dim, and 


85 

his back bent for a long time, when they bore 
his corpse to the bed of state, from thence to 
the lofty catafalco, and from thence to the deep 
burial vault. And very likely, too, during those 
years which he had lived, he had known more 
of sorrow and grief than of joy and happiness. 
In common with the other princes of Germany, 
he had endured foreign oppression. It was 
harder and more grievous for him to bear it 
than for many others ; for a voice within kept 
whispering to him that it was a guilty misery ; 
that for a prince to endure oppression from a 
foreign master, was invariably the result of the 
suppression of the liberties of the people by their 
own ruler ; and that a prince who rested for 
support upon a free people, since he himself 
would not rule over slaves, could never become 
the slave of another. An inward voice had kept 
uttering this to him during the period of his 
foreign oppression •, and it cried this out to him 
when the German people had flung off the for- 
eign yoke. But this voice, unfortunately, could 
not force its way to his will ; for though his 
understanding was clear and his disposition kind- 
ly, his will was feeble, and he was always un- 
der the guidance of a clique who knew how to 
lead and mislead him. But yet this inward 
voice could never be silenced ; and its summons 
drove all satisfaction from his bosom. In his 
family, also, he experienced only sorrow. It 
was a heavy grief and a bitter sorrow ; and the 
grief was only so much the heavier, that he had 
no friendly or kindred heart to which he might 
complain ; and so the bitterness of his sorrow 
became still more corroding. 

Alas for the prince who lacks both a friend 
and a free people ; — and he will be without a 
friend who is without a free people; and he will 
lack a free people, if he has no friend. 

The Crown Prince, after the death of his 
grandfather, had assumed the government. 

A.n heir apparent rarely resembles his father ; 
still more rarely his grandfather. They are not 
wont to follow the example of their fathers ; 
they go directly counter to that of their grand- 
fathers. This, however, relates only to the ex- 
ternal aspect of their governments. The inner 
spirit of an absolute government is always the 
same. Alas for the blindness of that spirit ! 

How should it be otherwise with the govern- 
ment of princes who look upon their country and 
their people as their own property, than it is 
with the conduct of people in respect to their 
property in general ? The son always makes a 
use of his property different from that of the 
father ; and the grandson makes a use different 
from that of the grandfather. 

No sooner had the new ruler declared to his 
people that it would be his highest glory to tread 
in the footsteps of his revered grandfather, now 
resting in God, than he dismissed the councilors 
and confidants of that grandfather, and recalled 
those persons whom his predecessor had thought 
it necessary to banish from intercourse with his 
grandson ; and appointed those his ministers and 


86 


ANNA HAMMER. 


confidants, whom his grandfather would not ad- 
mit into his councils. 

The new government was speedily in oper- 
ation. The country was astonished, awaited, 
feared, hoped, grieved : but it was silent : the 
press was under a censorship. 

The customary period of strict public mourn- 
ing had elapsed. A day of general rejoicing 
was appointed. The oath of allegiance had been 
taken by the local authorities in the principal 
places in the country. The superior function- 
aries were summoned to the capital for the same 
purpose. 

The military and the civil superintendents of 
the fortress — the Commandant and the Director 
— were summoned. As there was much to be 
seen and heard upon such an occasion, Madame 
Blewstone, the Commandant’s housekeeper, did 
not fail to appoint herself one of her master’s 
suite, in order, as she said, that his wants and 
conveniencies might be properly cared for. 

The day for taking the oath had come, and 
the carriage of the Commandant, which was to 
take the three to the city stood harnessed in the 
court-yard. The Director was ready to set out. 
The housekeeper was in the carriage with her 
gear in order, and her necessaries and conven- 
iences packed for the journey. But the Com- 
mandant kept them waiting for him. Old sol- 
diers are usually very quick and punctual, or ex- 
tremely slow and irregular. The Commandant 
now and then belonged to the latter class. He 
had such an infinity of orders and directions to 
give, that the Director’s servant, who had been 
sent to inquire, and had now come back with 
tidings, assured them that there would be no 
getting off for half an hour. 

The Director thereupon went quietly about 
his business. 

Prisons and penitentiaries, beyond all other 
institutions, afford the most abundant materials 
for the observation and study of human nature. 
Every order and calling which can conduce to 
humane ends, may there find materials for its 
activity. 

The office of the Director of this prison was 
rich in appliances for the knowledge of the human 
heart. He made it a point to have every pris- 
oner who was committed brought before him in 

cl 

the first place, and also to be personally present 
at every interview which was granted between 
the prisoner and the relatives or friends who 
came to visit them. He was perfectly acquainted 
with every convict and with his history. 

A prisoner who had just been received was 
announced, at the moment when the servant 
brought intelligence of the delay in setting out. 
The Director ordered the new-comer to be ush- 
ered in. He was a young man of not unpleas- 
ing exterior, and apparently of good family. He 
appeared downcast and sorrowful. 

“Where do you come from?” inquired the 
Director, in a kindly tone. 

“ From the prison at the capital.” 

“ What is your offense ?” 

“They say that I have committed a theft.” 


“ 1 They say !’ Young man, none are con- 
fined here but criminals who have been con- 
victed, and are therefore sent here for punish- 
ment. We have nothing to do with those w T ho 
are merely charged with an offense.” 

“ I assure you, Herr Director, that I am inno- 
cent.” 

“ I hear that story every day from the most 
hardened offenders, but never from the penitent 
and less guilty. You will understand that this 
story does not prepossess me in favor of the per- 
son that comes with it to me.” 

“ I must hold to my assertion. I have not 
been convicted.” 

“ Not convicted ! How is that ?” 

The Director broke open the documents 
which accompanied the prisoner. He glanced 
hastily over them at first, then with more atten- 
tion, and, at last, with increased interest. From 
the papers he looked at the prisoner, and from 
the prisoner to the papers; and then became 
very thoughtful. The prisoner followed his 
every movement with great anxiety. 

“ You must be convinced, sir, that I have not 
been convicted, and so am not committed.” 

“Your case is certainly very singular. You 
are, by special order, to remain here until fur- 
ther notV:£ But, from the fact that you have 
not been convicted, it does not follow that you 
are innocent.” 

“ But, sir, I should suppose, on the contrary, 
that so long as a person has not been convicted, 
he should be considered to be innocent.” 

“ Perhaps not always. There are strong 
grounds of suspicion against you.” 

“ Will you denominate the most innocent cir- 
cumstances, added to the grossest falsehoods 
of some secret enemy, grounds of suspicion? 
Against these balance one single circumstance. 
If I had stolen the Princess’s jewels — an orna- 
ment of such immense value, and which would 
have assured me an almost princely, at all events 
a perfectly easy life, in a distant country — would 
I have remained in the capital, a quietly labor- 
ing artisan, without being able to enjoy the 
fruits of my crimes, and in danger of detection 
at any moment?” 

“ We often find, especially in very grave 
offenses, an inconceivable blindness and care- 
lessness. You must acknowledge the weight 
of the grounds of suspicion that lie against you : 
You are a jeweler. You had before made some 
repairs in the stolen ornament; you had been 
in the cabinet of the Princess. Early on the 
morning of the theft you were seen in the park. 
Since the theft you have spent more money than 
before.” 

“ Have you read my defense?” 

“You certainly explain every thing naturally 
enough.” 

“ Why will you allow weight to the facts 
upon only one side of the case ?” 

“ We can not debate the matter. My object 
was to become better acquainted with you, in 
order to labor for your good, as far as lies in 
my power.” 


TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 


The Director called an inspector to take the 
prisoner away. 

“ The prisoner,” said he, “ is put in special 
custody. He will be kept apart, and must 
speak with no one ; do you hear? with no one.” 

“It shall be done.” 

The prisoner was taken away. Any one who 
had seen the look which he cast toward heaven, 
as he was forced to encounter his dreadful fate, 
would have sworn that he was innocent. 

A father was now announced, who wished 
to visit his son who was in confinement. The 
Director ordered the son to be brought, in the 
first place, and then the father to be admitted. 
The culprit made his appearance. He was a 
stout, rough-looking lad. 

*’ Your father wishes to speak with you.” 

“ I don’t care !” 

“ Have you no better feelings, upon seeing, 
for the first time your old father, whom you 
have made miserable ?” 

The fellow said nothing, but looked very un- 
concerned. The father entered — a countryman 
with white hair and an anxious countenance. 
He held out his hand to his son, looking at him 
at first with a half-averted face, but soon with 
the full, strong glance of paternal love also. 
At the first entrance of the old man, the pris- 
oner looked down to the ground ; but he soon 
looked at the old man with an impudent stare. 
For a while both stood in silence. The father 
seemed to be waiting for the son to say some- 
thing ; who seemed obstinately bent on not 
speaking. 

“ My son,” said the old man at last, with 
a sorrowful voice, “what a shame you have 
brought upon your brothers and sisters, and 
what a misfortune upon yourself.” 

The culprit tossed his head insolently. 

“ My son a thief! All my long life I’ve lived 
honestly. All your brothers are fine fellows, 
and your sisters have all married honest men. 
You only, the youngest, whom I have loved 
more than all of them, to fall into such a wav, 
and to bring such shame upon us !” 

“If you’ve only come to jaw at me, father, 
you’d better have staid at home.” 

“ I would speak to your conscience, my 
child.” 

“ The chaplain here does that.” 

“ But the chaplain has not the love of a father 
toward his lost child.” 

“ If I was lost to you, you might have let me 
be where I was.” 

The Director interposed. “Old man,” said 
he, “ break off this conversation that can only 
pierce your heart ; but do not despair ; come 
back again in four weeks; and, in the mean 
time, trust in God and in time. And you, 
young man, look within your own self, and 
during this four weeks, have the image of your 
old father before your eyes, day and night.” 
He then dismissed them both. 

Two country people were now announced, a 
man and his wife, who wished to visit their 
daughter who was in prison. The girl had 


87 

been in the institution for nearly a year. During 
that time she had not seen her parents. 

The Director directed the parents to be 
admitted. They were a couple of aged peas- 
ants, dressed simply but neatly. The features 
of the man were strong, though an unquiet 
expectation was visible in them. The woman’s 
eyes were full of tears. The looks of both were 
fixed immovably upon the door through which 
the daughter was to enter. 

The door opened, and a young girl came in, 
wearing the gray clothing of the institution. 
The shapeless garments could not hide her 
delicate figure. Gnawing grief, and the un- 
healthy atmosphere of a prison had not extin- 
guished the soft brightness of her eyes, nor de- 
stroyed the pure transparency of her complexion. 

She did not know, nor even anticipate, that 
she was to meet her parents. When she saw 
them, she stood astounded upon the threshold of 
the door ; and then by a sudden impulse covered 
her face with both hands, turned around, and 
was about to rush away, as though she was not 
worthy to look upon the face of her father and 
mother, or as if she could not bear their observ- 
ation. 

The mother sprang to her, caught her in her 
arms, and pressed her to her mother-heart. 
The girl flung her arms about her mother. 
Neither could speak a word. The old man 
looked up toward heaven. 

“ Mother, mother ! 0 my poor mother !” 
sobbed out the girl at last. 

She tore herself from her mother, and ap- 
proaching her father held out her hand. He 
took it and pressed it, looking into her eyes. 
The expression of his countenance grew softer. 

“ Father, mother,” exclaimed the daughter, 
“ can you forgive the shame and sorrow I have 
brought upon your old age?” 

“My child,” said the mother, “We are not 
come to reproach you. You have erred ; but if 
you repent, the Lord will forgive you ; and shall 
not. your parents do likewise ?” 

“Herr Director,” cried Madame Blewstone, 
coming into the room, dressed out for the ap- 
proaching ceremonial, as probably she had never 
before in her life been dressed out — for she had 
never experienced the delight of dressing herself 
out for her own wedding — “ Herr Director, the 
Herr Commandant is now ready.” 

“My good people,” said the Director to the 
parents of the prisoner, “ your daughter conducts 
herself so well, that I hope to be able to procure 
her pardon before the year is out.” 

He then gave orders to a keeper to let the 
gild remain alone with her parents for another 
hour ; and then took his departure, with Madame 
Blewstone. 

The Commandant was already seated in the 
carriage, from which he was giving directions 
to the head-officer, who stood upon the steps. 
The same proceeding went on, while the Director 
was getting in, on the part of the housekeeper 
toward Anna Hammer, her assistant in her 
household duties. This accomplished, the good 


88 


ANNA HAMMER. 


dame squeezed her bulky person into the car- 
riage, which then drove off; the gate of the 
fortress closing behind it. 

Anna Hammer had been introduced into the 
fortress by Geigenfritz as his grand-daughter. 
On this occasion the housekeeper had fetched a 
couple of bottles of wine from the Commandant’s 
cellar, and had invited her friend, the sub-officer 
Long. The two old soldiers conversed about 
old times and military adventures, and the house- 
keeper talked with Geigenfritz about the art of 
becoming bullet-proof. Geigenfritz, on this 
occasion let out many secrets thereanent, without 
being able to gain any in return. He took his 
leave, wishing himself better fortune another 
time, and commending Anna Hammer to the 
kind care of her new protectress. 

Anna Hammer, by her character, gay and 
spirited, brisk and clever, serviceable and trust- 
worthy, soon gained the entire approbation as 
well of the housekeeper as of Sub-officer Long. 

The housekeeper and the sub-officer appeared 
to be almost inseparable. If she was not with 
the Commandant, or doing something for him, 
and if he was not on duty, one might reckon 
upon finding him in her company, puffing away 
at his short pipe, and looking straight before 
him. He did not speak a great deal, and she 
was not very talkative. All that was necessary 
for them seemed to be to bestow their company 
upon each other. Formerly he had performed 
various trifling services for her, and she had 
been used to do a good many like offices for him 
in return ; but now Anna performed these serv- 
ices for both of them. 

In particular she soon performed one very 
essential service for him. The fortress served 
the purposes of a prison of a twofold character. 
Primarily and according to its original destina- 
tion, it was erected as a place of punishment for 
offenders from the common ranks of life. These, 
and the buildings designed for them, were under 
the charge of the Director and the keepers im- 
mediately subject to him. But besides these, 
and by way of exception, prisoners of state were 
admitted, who were under exclusive military 
supervision, and thus immediately in the charge 
of the Commandant, who as chief officer had 
command of the whole fortress. The structures 
in which these state prisoners were confined lay 
outside of the others, were separated from them, 
and had separate entrances. They were con- 
nected with the residence of the Commandant. 
To these pertained the low round tower. Sepa- 
rate from the buildings of the two prisons were 
the barracks of the garrison. No one was per- 
mitted to enter that part of the fortress in which 
were the state prisoners and the Commandant’s 
residence, without permission from that officer, 
or in case o( his absence, that of his deputy. 
No one occupied this, except the Commandant 
with his household and assistants, and the sub- 
officers Long and Lewald, who officiated as 
keepers of the prisoners of state. This part of 
the fortress had its own special guard, which 
was set every day. 


Sub-officer Lewald did not appear to be on 
very intimate terms with his comrade Long, nor 
with Madame Blewstone. He passed the greater 
part of his time in the watch-room. 

These two functionaries had charge of the 
round tower. Whether Lewald had other du- 
ties, Anna Hammer could not determine. Long, 
at all events, had nothing else to do. Inside, 
the tower was divided into two parts, a northern 
and a southern one. Each half had its own 
entrance, and its own staircase, and stories. 
Whether they were connected by doors within, 
Anna Hammer could not learn. The duties in 
the tower were divided between the two sub- 
officers, so that one had charge of the northern 
and the other of the southern portion. 

Long had seen many years of life, and much 
active service. These had somewhat bent his 
knees and stiffened his limbs ; and any allevia- 
tion of his duties was therefore doubly accept- 
able to him. It was particularly difficult for him 
to mount the stairs, especially when he had any 
thing to carry. 

Now he had to mount two pair of stairs twice 
a day, once to carry up bread and water, the 
other time to take his dinner to a prisoner in the 
tower, Colonel von Horberg. He used to lament, 
in the presence of Anna, over this grievance. 
One day, after a twice-repeated complaint of 
this kind, he was about to take for the third 
time his weary way, when he saw the kindly 
and serviceable Anna Hammer standing waiting 
for him, with the bread and water-jug. 

“What’s the meaning of this, my child?” fie 
asked, with his accustomed seriousness. 

u It’s so troublesome for you to carry it, dear 
Herr Long, that I wished to help you.” 

“ Ho, ho, my little lambkin, that won’t do. 
Nobody must go into the tower without orders 
from the Commandant. Have you any such to 
show?” 

“ But, my dear Herr Long, I am only going 
in with you.” 

“ No matter for that. You mustn’t. Give it 
here.” 

“ But, dear Herr Long, the Commandant 
would surely not object to me. Hasn’t he given 
Mamsell Blewstone leave to take me into the 
house ?” 

“ No matter. I must not do it. Nobody else 
must go into the tower.” 

“ But, dear Herr Long, what if Mamsell 
Blewstone would only help you to carry them 
sometimes ?” 

He stood and reflected, but could not come to 
any clear decision. “ That would be quite an- 
other matter,” said he. 

The girl would not give the matter up. 

“ But, dear Herr Long,” repeated she, with 
a persistent obstinacy, which of itself was almost 
sufficient to make him hesitate ; “ the Com- 
mandant has not given permission for Mamsell 
Blewstone to go with you into the tower either, 
and if you would take her with you, you couldn’t 
refuse me too.” 

Either this logic convinced him, or he yielded 


TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 


89 


to the wish to have the weary mounting of the 
stairs lightened. At any rate he yielded, with 
a great deal o( fretting and grumbling. The 
girl was suffered to accompany him, and went 
with him every day from that time. 

But she could not accompany him on his way 
to the second prisoner Vorhoff, who was confined 
below in the tower. Long here was so inex- 
orably strict, that it seemed that he wished bv 
this means to quiet the reproaches of his con- 
science for his compliance with respect to the 
first prisoner. 

Geigenfritz, when he introduced Anna into 
the fortress, made her aware of the object of her 
abode there, and had furnished her with par- 
ticular instructions. She was to furnish him 
with the most accurate information possible of 
the place where Count Arnstein, Captain Hor- 
berg, her brother-in-law Vorhoff, and, no less, 
the Princess Amelia, the wife of Count. Edward 
von Arnstein, were imprisoned, if in the for- 
tress. She was to endeavor to grain access to 
them, and to consult with them respecting the 
plans for their liberation. Her sister had given 
her a letter for Vorhoff, and Schrader another for 
Horberg. Geigenfritz had visited her twice 
during her residence in the fortress, and both 
times he had brought her a new letter from 
Schrader to Horberg. 

Up to this time she had neither been able to 
deliver either of the letters, or to speak with one 
of the prisoners. Not even the name of either 
of the prisoners was known, for they passed by 
numbers, not by their names. This was the 
case when engaged on duty, and in private con- 
versation. Anna did not dare to ask any ques- 
tions, for fear of arousing suspicion. 

On the present day — the day when the oath 
of allegiance was to be administered — many, 
very many, things were to happen. The Com- 
mandant was away, and the housekeeper with 
him. Sub-ofHcer Long was sick, and had kept 
his bed for three days. Lewald performed his 
duties for him, and Anna had never accompa- 
nied him into the tower. 

To-day she would do something toward her 
project, perhaps in a great measure accomplish 
it. To-day she would venture much ; but if 
she won she would win much too. Hitherto 
she had been to but a single prisoner, and to but 
one cell. Who the prisoner was she did not 
know. She merely guessed, or rather suspect- 
ed. It was not her brother-in-law; it could 
not be the old Count Arnstein, for the man whom 
she had seen was in the full vigor of his years. 
It could, therefore, only be Captain von Hor- 
berg, for she not been told of a fourth prisoner. 
Yet what assurance had she that there were not 
other prisoners of whom she knew nothing, con- 
fined in those great gloomy buildings ? What 
assurance, in particular, had she that the scanty 
and unsatisfactory information which Geigenfritz 
had gleaned at the fair, and had communicated 
to her, concerned just those persons of whom 
they were in search ? How frequently do not 
our hopes and wishes deceive us. 


That there was a second prisoner in the very 
tower in which the supposed Horberg was con- 
fined, and below his cell, she knew from the 
fact that Long had the charge over him. Ac- 
cording to Geigenfritz’s supposition this was 
her brother-in-law. But beyond this, she knew 
nothing at all. She did not even know the po- 
sition of his cell, for Long had never taken her 
with him when he went to the prisoner, and 
without the sub-officer she had hitherto never 
ventured to approach the tower. 

That in the same tower, but in the other 
division of it, there was a third prisoner, who 
was under charge of the sub-officer Lewald, 
appeared partly from the information Geigen- 
fritz had imparted to her, and was in part con- 
firmed by the conversation between Long and 
the housekeeper. But further than this she 
had hitherto been able to learn nothing about 
him. 

This was all that she knew. 

Of the Princess she had been unable to dis- 
cover the slightest trace. She had closely 
watched all the steps of the housekeeper, but 
had never seen her set her foot into any other 
building than that occupied by the Commandant, 
in which she resided. She indeed went every 
day into the upper story of this, where Anna 
could not follow her ; but in this was the Com- 
mandant’s sitting-room ; and there was nothing 
to indicate that the extensive apartments of that 
story served as a residence, voluntary or invol- 
untary, for any other person. 

It was eight o’clock in the morning when the 
Commandant’s carriage drove off. Bread and 
water had already been carried to the prisoners, 
and nobody troubled themselves any further 
about them, unless something special happened, 
till noon, when their dinner was taken to them. 
She had, therefore, full four hours’ time for the 
execution of her project. But there were also 
many obstacles to overcome. She set about the 
work with her naturally hopeful spirit. 

Her plan was, in the first place, to seek out 
her brother-in-law. Family affection attached 
her to him first of all. From him she would 
go to Horberg, and afterward she would en- 
deavor to discover the Count. She was anxious 
not to leave her design half accomplished — she 
wished not merely to ask and receive intelligence 
from them, but to give them also the letters in- 
trusted to her for them. It was only natural 
that the prisoners should long for nothing more 
earnestly than for tidings and tokens of love from 
their friends. Besides, might not the letters 
contain important intelligence which they did 
not wish to intrust to her orally ? In her visits 
with Long she had convinced herself, by the 
closest inspection, that the door and trap open- 
ing into Horberg’s cell were closed so fast and 
closely that it would not be possible to introduce 
even a needle. That the openings to her broth- 
er-in-law’s cell were of the same character, was 
fairly presumable. She must, therefore, find 
out some other means of giving them the letters. 
Oi !v one method presented itself as possible — a 


90 


ANNA HAMMER. 


very doubtful and perilous one certainly, but all 
her reflection could not show her another ; and 
so this must be boldly attempted. She must 
endeavor to get possession of the keys either of 
the doors or the little traps of the cells. 

Sub-officer Long had fastened to a great iron 
ring all the keys of the cells confided to his 
charge. He always carried them with him. as 
though they were sacx*ed relics. At night they 
lay by his bed, so that the first almost uncon- 
scious grasp of his hand was fastened upon them, 
Though during his illness his comrade Lewald 
performed his duties for him, yet Long would 
only intrust the keys to him during the time 
that they were absolutely indispensable. Le- 
wald was obliged to fetch them himself every 
time that he used them, and when he had used 
them, to lay them again in their place. 

Now in what manner should she get them 
into her possession, without exciting the obser- 
vation of the sick soldier. The project was not 
of easy execution. Anna Hammer could form 
no definite plan for this purpose, and was forced 
to throw herself upon her good fortune. To 
take them away for a moment without being 
detected, would not have been impossible, but 
it was just as possible, indeed it was certain, 
that Long, while she was away, would look 
around for the keys, and miss them : and if he 
missed them, every thing was lost. 

Anna Hammer confided in her good-fortune. 
She cheered up her own heart, which threatened 
to become a little heavy, closed up the house- 
keeper’s room, and betook herself to the cham- 
ber of Sub-officer Long. The sick soldier lay 
upon his bed in a burning fever. His face 
glowed, and his eyes sparkled with a sickly 
brightness, from the fire of the fever, but they 
had not lost the power of vision, and as he 
tossed about on his bed, they fell continually 
upon the mysterious keys, which lay spread 
out on their heavy ring upon a chair close by 
his bed. 

“Are they gone?” asked he of the girl as 
she entered. 

“ The carriage drove off from the door a few 


minutes ago. Do you want any thing, Herr 
Long ?” 

“ I’m terribly hot. Reach me the water.” 

She gave him the toast-water that was stand- 
ing upon a table. He drank, and gave it back 
to her. 

“ Sit down there.” 

She took her seat upon the foot of the bed. 
But a single step from her, at the head of the 
bed, lay the keys upon a chair. She needed 
only to stretch out her hand, to get possession 
of them. But he needed only to reach out his 
hand from the bed, or to alter the direction of 
his eyes, to discover the loss. Vainly and ever 
vainly did she puzzle her little head. One min- 
ute passed after another. She became almost 
in an agony. Should he die — old man as he 
was — the thought all at once came into her 
mind, then all difficulties would be out of the 
way ; but she grew uncomfortable at the thought. 


and shuddered amid the deathlike stillness that 
surrounded her. 

The physician of the establishment came in 
to visit the sick man. He found his condition 
worse than it was the day before ; the fever was 
higher. He shook his head. 

“ What has been doing here ?” he asked. 

Anna answered him that the patient had been 
kept quiet, and had implicitly followed the di- 
rections that had been left: and that nothing 
particular had occurred. The sick man con- 
firmed the statement. 

But the physician knew whom he had to deal 
with. “I know all about it already,” said he. 
“ Mamsell Blewstone, before she set out, was 
with you, with ever so many directions and 
things to attend to ; and the consequences are 
plain enough before us.” 

This could not be denied. 

“Your case is critical, my dear Long,” said 
the physician. “ The mistake that has been made 
must be made up for. I must order for you the 
most absolute quiet, you must not speak another 
word to-day. I make you, my little one, re- 
sponsible for it that nobody is admitted to the 
patient, and that nobody speaks a word to him 
to-day. I will come again in the afternoon.” 

He went away. He had spoken and given 
his directions in the most decided manner. 
Anna had not lost a single word of them. 
She looked at them from two sides. All be- 
came suddenly plain to her little head. The 
means were found. She could not fail of getting 
the keys. The sick soldier himself came to her 
assistance. 

“ Go about your work, and leave me alone,” 
said he to her, when the physician had gone. 
“ The doctor was right. I must have quiet. 
Put the medicine and the water here upon the 
chair; and don’t let any body in to me.” 

Old soldier as he was, he was afraid of death 
when presented to him upon a sick bed. 

Anna did as she was directed. Then she said, 
and her voice was even more tremulous than she 
feared it would have been : 

“ But the keys ?” 

“ Lewald will come and get them.” 

“ But nobody must come to you.” 

“Lewald won’t disturb me.” 

“ The doctor made no exception, and you 
always say that the doctor must be obeyed, like 
an officer on a field of battle.” 

“ Well, what shall we do?” 

“ It seems to me that you must make an ex- 
ception to-day, and give the keys to Herr Lewald. 
I will take them to him.” 

He grew restless. “ Let Lewald have the 
keys ?” 

“ But you must let him have them at noon.” 

“ But you — ” He looked thoughtfully at the 

girl- 

“Well,” said she, laughing. “They won’t 
be too heavy for me.” 

She took the bunch of keys up and balanced 
them in her hand. It seemed as though he be- 
came easier when he saw the keys in the hand 


TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 


91 


of the girl. At last, he made no further ob- 
jections. 

I will take them,” said she. 

He was silent for a moment. Then, after a 
struggle he said : 

u Take them, in God’s name !” 

He turned over with his face to the wall. 
The girl left the room with the keys. 

The first obstacle was surmounted. For three 
or four hours was she mistress of the means of 
communicating with the prisoners. She was 
also safe from detection ; for she believed that 
she might be assured that Lewald would not go 
to his comrade before noon. It was now nec- 
essary to get into the tower in some unnoticed 
and unsuspected manner. 

This tower stood at a distance of about fifty 
paces from the residence of the Commandant. 
Between them lay a wide space surrounded by 
buildings. This space itself was open, and the 
way from the Commandant’s house to the tower 
lay directly across it. Before the Commandant’s 
door, a sentinel was posted. Another sentinel 
was posted before each of the two doors of the 
tower, which stood open during the day. To 
get into the tower without being seen, was im- 
possible. There was nothing left but to endeavor 
to effect an entrance without exciting suspicion. 
Anna Hammer had already formed her plan. 
That very useful and treacherous domestic animal, 
the cat, was to assist her in carrying it into ex- 
ecution. But her design was one in which the 
end sanctifies the means. 

Among the household goods of the house- 
keeper was a young kitten. It was a cunning, 
playful creature. The girl was accustomed to 
play with it in her solitary and unoccupied hours. 
She had no other playfellow in the fortress, and 
the heart must have something to rest upon — 
especially the heart of a young maiden. The 
creature was much attached to her, and followed 
her about, as a dog does his master — or as an 
old general does absolutism — only in a more 
kindly manner. 

With the letters and the keys in her pocket, 
and the kitten in her arms, Anna Hammer went 
out of the door of the Commandant’s residence 
into the court. She looked about in the warm 
sunbeams, and stroked and fondled the kitten, as 
carelessly and innocently, to all appearance, 
as though there was no such thing as a sentinel, 
nor any thing else, in the court, or in the whole 
world. She sauntered from one side of the court 
to the other; now setting the kitten down upon 
the stones, and letting it catch her ; now taking 
it up again in her arms, and stroking it ; then 
letting it go, to chase it and be chased by it ; and 
dancing aud leaping about with it The old 
mustached sentinels before the house and tower 
looked with grim pleasure upon the good-natured 
innocent girl and her pretty playfellow. Any 
body else, indeed, would have been equally 
pleased, but there was nobody else in the court. 

Without exciting any observation she came 
close up to the tower. Livelier grew the chas- 
ing and springing, the catching and seizing. 


Anna ran into the tower, the kitten sprang 
, after her ; she ran out again, the creature hung 
upon her dress. 

Again she sprang into the tower, through the 
door which led to Horberg’s cell ; the kitten 
ran in with her. She stood still in the gloomy 
hall, beyond the door. She took the kitten in 
her arms. Her heart throbbed ; she listened : 
she could hear only the beating of her heart, 
and the quiet, measured step of the sentinels. 
Should she venture it? She did venture. 

The hall of the tower was small, and full of 
turns and corners. A few steps from the en- 
trance, she found herself at the foot of a winding 
stone staircase, leading to the upper story. To 
the right of the stairs ran a passage, narrow 
and dark, like the hall, having no light except 
what it gained from the doorway, upon which 
account, in fact, it was that the door was left 
standing open by day. 

In this passage must be the cell of Vorhoff; 
for there was no other outlet, and she knew 
that the second of the prisoners under the charge 
of Long, was confined in the lower passage. 
But the position of the cell was entirely un- 
known to her, for she had never been in the 
passage except when she had accompanied 
Long ; and she could go with him only up the 
stairs. 

Anna Hammer kept fast hold of her kitten, in 
order to be sure that it should not escape ; then 
she began to jump, and step about, to coax and 
call, in order that the sentinel outside might 
suppose nothing else than that the girl was 
hunting for her cat in the dark tower, or was 
chasing back and forth with it. In the mean 
while — for the girl had not formed her plan of 
campaign without forethought — the clock of 
the fortress struck nine, the hour for relieving 
guard. Directly upon the last stroke, the re- 
call sounded ; two fresh sentinels took their 
post before the doors of the tower. They knew" 
nothing about the girl’s being within the tower. 
She remained in silence. 

Cautiously she crept further into the passage. 
There were in it six doors upon the outer side, 
all in a row. By the side of each door was a 
closed trap. The construction was the same as 
above. Her brother-in-law must be behind one 
of these doors. She began her more careful in- 
vestigations at the last of these. She knocked 
gently upon the door, and then listened. There 
was no stir within : she knocked again, and then 
placed her ear against the strong iron-knobbed 
door. There was no answer, no sound, no 
movement within. She knocked louder, and 
called softly the name of Vorhoff, then his Chris- 
tian name, Adolph. It was all in vain. This 
cell was empty. She went to the next cell, 
and repeated the same procedure. In vain. 
This cell too was unoccupied. She gained the 
same conviction from the third, fourth, and fifth 
cells. There was only the sixth one left. If 
the person she sought was to be found in this 
passage, it could only be in this cell. It was 
the one nighest the entrance of the tower, at 


92 


ANNA HAMMER. 


a distance from it of scarcely three paces, and 
thus as near as possible to the sentinel, who, 
with the least attention, must hear the slightest 
movement. Knocking, speaking, or any loud 
sound, would betray her. The opening of the 
door, or even of the trap, was not to be thought 
of. The sentinel, in his short, regular rounds, 
went a little further off; but the distance was 
too small, and the return too immediate. 

Great anxiety and apprehension fell upon the 
maiden. She scarcely dared to breathe. All 
her courage seemed suddenly to have deserted 
h^r in this posture of affairs, of which she had 
not previously thought. Who can blame this 
tender child, thus left all alone to herself? It 
is rather a matter for admiration that she was 
able, upon the spur of the moment, to form an- 
other plan. Horberg’s cell was well known to 
her. She could get access to him without any 
disturbance. Perhaps he could give her some 
tidings of the abode of her brother-in-law. At 
all events, he could aid her with his counsel. 

Lightly she mounted the stairs, and gained 
the well-known cell. Almost inaudibly she 
drew the keys from her pocket. She compared 
each of them with the shape and size of the 
key-hole of the trap by the side of the door, and 
selected what she supposed to be the right one. 
Again, as she took hold of the key to open the 
trap, the poor child was seized with the same 
anxiety — an anxiety that fell upon her suddenly 
and almost without object, and threatened ali 
the more to unnerve her. Her breath almost 
failed her, her heart throbbed ; but once again 
she nerved herself. 

She took the key, with a firm and decided 
hand, and placed it in the key-hole. It fitted. 
She turned it, and the lock opened more easily 
than she anticipated. The trap stood open. 

She heard a rustling from within; but no one 
approached the opening. It seemed as though 
the occupant of the cell had merely raised him- 
self up or turned around, surprised perhaps at 
the sudden and quite unusual opening of the 
trap. But he did not approach. 

“ Herr von Horberg !” said the girl, in a low 
and scarcely audible voice, but to utter which 
she had to summon up all her courage. 

The occupant of the cell sprang suddenly up, 
and in an instant stood by the opened trap. His 
lace was close to that of the girl. The beams 
of the clear mid-day sun, uninterrupted by the 
window-piate fell brightly into the cell. 

Anna Hammer had seen Captain Yon Hor- 
berg ; but he had never seen her. When she 
had accompanied the sub-officer, she had been 
obliged to stand directly behind him ; and Hor- 
berg, who could not suppose that there was an- 
other human being by his door, had no induce- 
ment to direct his view toward the dark space 
behind the old soldier. 

She had only caught a passing sight of him. 
She had scarcely seen more of him than the 
black hair and beard. With a peculiar curi- 
osity she had often looked toward the man, 
who had excited her interest from the hard fate 


of his sad, solitary imprisonment. Her heart 
had been filled with sympathy for him, and this 
interest and sympathy must of necessity have 
been greatly augmented in case it were actually 
Horberg whom she saw, and recognized as the 
friend and companion in suffering of her brother- 
in-law. But she had never been able to obtain 
a more accurate view of his features. To-day, 
for the first time, she saw his countenance. All 
at once she Saw, close before her eyes, the vis- 
age, pale and hollowq yet noble ; the finely-cut 
aquiline nose; the high, broad forehead; the 
' sparkling eyes turned full upon her — a counte- 
nance to which the black hair and beard ; 
framed in, as it were, by the sides of the open- 
ing by prison-door gave a peculiar and almost 
ideal charm. This image made an impression 
upon the maiden wffiich for a moment constrict- 
ed her heart in a manner which she had never 
before felt. 

Captain Von Horberg was perhaps no less 
surprised when — already surprised by the alto- 
gether unwonted visit, and by the calling of 
his name, and the soft voice which uttered it — 
he saw suddenly the lovely and charming coun- 
tenance of the maiden hardly arrived at her 
bloom, wiio trembling, pale, anxious, and per- 
plexed, stood before him, and who appeared so 
much the more lovely and charming, the more 
perplexed and embarrassed she grew. 

She had doubtless determined what she would 
say to him, when she should stand before him ; 
but now when she actually was in his presence, 
she had not a single word. The natural ex- 
haustion which followed her violent excitement 
J was not calculated to relieve the embarrassment 
into which the peculiarity of her situation, and 
more especially the presence of the stranger, 
had unavoidably plunged her. In her confusion 
she pressed the kitten still more closely to her, 
and grew still more confused, as she thought 
what a singular appearance she presented, be- 
stowing these tokens of affection upon the sym- 
bol of falsehood. 

“ What have you brought for me ?” asked 
Captain von Horberg, softening his deep voice 
to a tone of gentle kindliness. 

Even this friendly question did not at once 
give back to her the power of speech. Again 
he asked of her : 

“ What have you brought me, my child ?’ 

All at once the immediate object which had 
brought her to him was clear before her mind. 

“ Oh, sir,” she said, “I am seeking for my 
brother-in-law Vorhoff, your friend, your fellow- 
prisoner. I have a message for him and for 
you, from your friend Schrader.” 

If he had already looked upon her with a 
curious regard, now all his thoughts and atten- 
tion were directed to her as one is wont to do 
to some mysterious apparition that stands in the 
act of unfolding the volume of some great and 
important fate. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“ I am Vorhoffs sister-in-law.” 

“ How came you here ?” 


TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 


93 


Of that afterwards. I hope I shall often 
come to you. Now I seek but one thing of you. 
Do you know any thing about Vorhoff? Is he 
here ? Where Is he kept ?” 

“ He is here.” 

u And where ?” 

u In this building just below me, in the lower 
story.” 

“ Exactly below you ?” 

l ' The window of my cell lies directly over 
his.” 

She reflected. Horberg’s cell was the corner 
one, on the right side of the tower. Then, un- 
fortunately, the door close to the entrance of the 
tower, a few paces from the sentinel, was actu- 
ally the one that led to her brother-in-law’s cell. 

a What shall I do ?” she said, half audibly, 
to herself. 

“ You seem to be in some perplexity,” said 
he. “ Tell me what embarrasses you ; perhaps 
I may be able to assist you, if not by actions, at 
any rate with my advice.” 

“ I know now, from your description, the cell 
of my poor brother-in-law. It is close by the 
door that leads into the tower, and by this door 
stands a sentinel.” 

‘ Does the sentinel stand inside of the tower?” 

‘ Outside of it, in the court.” 

“ Have you the key of his cell ?” 

“ That of his and of yours.” 

c: The keys of the doors, or only those of the 
side-traps ?” 

“ Those of the doors also.” 

“ I have an idea. Perhaps I can give you 
some assistance. Have 3 7 ou courage ?” 

She had now fully recovered her presence of 
mind, and her full joyous courage. At this 
question she looked at him with her peculiar 
brisk laugh. He understood the answer involv- 
ed in that. 

“ You are right, my bold little one,” said he. 
i: Without courage greater than that of a child, 
without a most extraordinary boldness, you would 
never have been here. Then listen to my pro- 
position. Give me the key to his cell, and do 
you go out into the court before the tower, in 
which you say we are, and find some means to 
absorb the attention of the sentinel standing 
there. In the meantime I will open Vorhoff’s 
cell. Then do you come back. Reflect upon 
this project.” 

She reflected — she had already reflected upon 
every word he had spoken. But her determina- 
tion was not at once formed. Her reflections 
presented the picture of one danger after an- 
other. Horberg, her brother-in-law, she herself, 
all of them, would be exposed to the most fear- 
ful consequences, should the bold step proposed 
to her be discovered. And how easy, how pro- 
bable, was the discovery. Most of all, she was 
deterred by the thought, in the event of being 
detected, of her deep and annihilating confusion 
in presence of the housekeeper and the old sub- 
officer, who had received her with all confidence ; 
but she could not hide from herself how sorely 
vhe had already abused this confidence ; and that 


it was for the very purpose of abusing it that she 
had gained that confidence. 

Anna Hammer was not to be justified. She 
did not even justify herself; she could only sum- 
mon up, in order to silence the voice of con- 
science, the misery of her brother-in-law. the 
woes of her sister. But the contest within her 
could not by this means be composed. The heart 
of the child, of the woman, has a ready resource 
in such cases. Anna’s overburdened heart found 
relief in a flood of tears. 

Captain von Horberg, in increasing astonish- 
ment, had kept his eyes fixed upon her. 

“ Will you not trust me?” asked he, in a tone 

of sympathy. “ Do you fear an abuse of the 

momentary liberty which you would bestow upon 

me ? The word of honor of a friend of Vorhoff 

should be a sufficient pledge to you that you have 

nothing to fear.” 

I * 

He had previously doubted her courage ; now 
he doubted her confidence in his word of honor 
— the last thing, perhaps, besides his friendship 
for her brother-in-law, that remained to him of 
all the ties that bound him to life. Could she 
any longer delay ? Quickly she stifled the weak 
voice of conscience. Quickly was her determ- 
ination formed. 

Without uttering a word, she sought the well 
known key to the door of the cell. And as rap- 
idly as the decision had been formed, she unlock- 
! ed it. 

“ Come with me,” said she, with the full 
courage of a firm decision, and of unswerving 
j confidence. 

He took her hand in silence, as, for the first 
time m five years, he stepped outside of his cell. 

What feelings must have stormed through 
him, as he saw behind him the narrow space in 
which for so many days, so many nights, so many 
hours, he had been caged up, like a wild beast, 
given up to all the fearful thoughts, all the con- 
suming feelings which impotence and hopeless- 
ness can induce in the human soul. And yet, 
what had he now gained ? Was he set at lib- 
erty ? It was only a dream that bore him from 
one prison cell to another, just to plunge him 
back, in a few minutes, into that old narrow 
space, into the old impotence and the old hope- 
lessness. 

He trembled and hung tottering — he the 
strong vigorous man — on the hand of the weak 
girl, who yet walked firmly and confidently bv 
his side. 

She led him through the gloomy passage to 
the winding stair at its further end. Carefully 
and lightly they descended the steps. They 
reached the foot of them, and stood in the little 
hall close by the door that led into the court. 
The door was open, and for the first time in five 
years the eye of Horberg beheld something be- 
sides the walls of his cell and a narrow stripe of 
the heavens. But this could be only for a second, 
for the next moment the sentinel might stand in 
or before the door. By a quick stride he was 
behind the stairs in the dusky hall. Anna Ham- 
mer gave him the keys, and pointed with her 


94 


ANNA HAMMER. 


hand to the door which was to be opened. She 
then sprang through the door of the tower, out 
into the court. 

Here she was again the unconcerned girl, 
playing merrily, prettily, and deceitfully with 
her pretty, merry, and deceitful playfellow. She 
flung the kitten down from her arms, and gam- 
boled about with it. In her haste she had be- 
thought herself of no other means of occupying 
the attention of the sentinel. She sprang close 
up to the soldier, and hindered him from ap- 
proaching the door of the tower ; she chased 
the cat between his legs till he was almost dum- 
foundered. He seemed, like the lion, to be no 
friend to the feline race. She begged his par- 
don, laughing aloud, both to hide her inward 
agony, and also to drown the noise which she 
fancied she heard from the tower at that instant. 
She asked him what o’clock it was, and when 
he had given her the information, said she thought 
she should have time to play awhile longer, and 
once more chased the cat into the tower. 

She went into the cell of her brother, which 
stood open, thoughtfully leaving the door ajar 
behind her. 

The two friends were locked in each other’s 
arms, their eyes suffused with tears, but with 
smiles upon their lips. They had not exchanged 
a word. 

“ Anna !” was the first word that was uttered. 
The pale, sunken prisoner, in whom Anna, almost 
with terror, recognized her brother-in-law Vor- 
hoff, uttered the name, when he became aware 
of the presence of the girl. He tore himself 
from the arms of his friend, and flung himself 
into those of his sister. 

She clung weeping to him ; but in the midst 
of her tears, in the midst of her pain, and her 
joy she still remained the same thoughtful and 
careful being. 

“ Speak low, for heaven’s sake,” she whis- 
pered. 

“ Anna, my dear Anna, how came you here ? 
How fares my wife ? How is my Joanna ?” 

“ She sent me ! Oh that she were here in 
my place.” 

“ How is she ? speak.” 

“She is now well. Friends have cared for 
her. She lives, as we all do, only in thoughts 
of you. Your son, too, is well. He’s a fine 
merry fellow.” 

“ A son ! my son ! — His name ?” 

“ Paul.” 

“ Oh tell me, tell me of all of them.” 

Anna drew out the letters, and gave to her 
brother-in-law the one belonging to him. 

“ Here,” said she, “ Joanna and Schrader have 
written every thing to you. I have letters for 
you too,” said she to Captain von Horberg. 
“ Attribute it to my confusion, that I forgot it till 
this moment.” 

She gave to him the letters destined for him. 
The papers were speedily torn open. Vorhoff’s 
eyes sparkled with joy as he read the letter of 
his faithful wife. The brow of the other grew 
dark. He read but a few lines, then folded the 


writing together, saying with icy coldness to 
Vorhoff : 

“ Let me share in your joy, and afterward 1 
will share with you.” 

Vorhoff looked inquiringly at him. He did 
not understand him. Even the pallid counte- 
ance and those almost lustreless eyes, afforded 
no more accurate comprehension to him whp 
was so taken up with his own momentary 
happiness. But Anna Hammer understood the 
unfortunate man. She knew only too well the 
cause of his distress, and even then felt the 
thrust of the foot with which the wife of Horberg 
had pushed her from herself. 

Horberg repeated : “ Read aloud the letter 

of your wife. You may venture to do so. It 
will perhaps do me good.” 

“ It will also be a pleasure to me,” replied 
Vorhoff, “to share my joy with you.” 

He read : — 

“ My dearly beloved Adolph — after many 
years of entire and terrible uncertainty, the first 
ray of hope now dawns upon us, that you are 
still alive, and that my thoughts — though only 
through this leaf of paper — may again mingle 
with thine. After we for so long have learned 
nothing, absolutely nothing, of your fate, and 
were ignorant whether you were alive or dead, 
came the tidings to us, indefinite, and unassured, 
that you were detained in secret and solitary 
imprisonment in the fortress on the borders. 
Anna, the brave girl, has undertaken to accept 
service in the fortress, which may afford her the 
opportunity of learning something of your fate, 
and perhaps of transmitting to you these lines 
from thy beloved Joanna, who loves thee in 
death, and in death is true to thee ; who would 
forget all woe, all sorrow, all misery, could she 
once more be so happy as to see thee again — 
thee, her sole and ever beloved. Shortly after 
thy separation from me the Lord bestowed upon 
us a boy. Our Paul, thy Paul, is a stout hearty 
child. He will grow up the image of his father. 
Farewell, I could write to thee only of my un- 
ending love, and that thou knowest — of that art 
convinced. Anna will tell you every thing else 
— God willing. Oh. may he mercifully so order 
it that these lines may reach thee. Ever, ever, 

“ Thy Joanna.” 

He was not able to read the letter to the end. 
First his voice began to tremble, then his whole 
frame. Then the feelings of joy and sorrow, of 
happiness and distress, grew so overpowering in 
him that he was forced to lay the letter aside : 
he covered his face with his hands, and threw 
himself sobbing upon his bed. 

Anna placed herself before him. She took 
his- hand in hers, and kissed the tears from his 
eyes. Horberg took up the letter, and read it 
aloud to the end. 

Vorhoff’s tears flowed more and more quietly. 
But the agony in Horberg’s breast, on the other 
hand, grew more burning and consuming. Everv 
word of love in the letter of the true wife was a 
stab, a laceration, in his heart, which had for a 


TIDINGS FROM LIFE. 


95 


long time been harrowed up by mistrust and I 
suspicion. He laid the letter aside when he had 
read it, and paced hastily up and down the 
narrow room. 

Vorhoff took up the letter and read it silently 
to himself, and pressed it to his lips. Then he 
bethought himself of the presence of his friend. 

“Forgive me, my friend. I was so happy! 
Now let us share between us thy intelligence.” 

Captain von Horberg measured the narrow 
cell with great strides. At last he stopped 
short. 

“ There it is,” said he, drawing forth the 
crumpled letter. 

Anna, who knew or divined the contents, 
stationed herself tremblingly at the window, 
and looked up at the blue patch of sky which 
the dusky glass had not, with sparing sympathy, 
shut out from the occupant of the cell. 

The Captain read : 

“ My dear and noble friend — I write to you 
with a very heavy heart. Should this letter 
come into your hands, you will learn the sad 
tale of the history of our country, by means of 
the trusty bearer. I must trouble your heart 
from another quarter. I must do so — the duty 
of a friend compels me — however painful its 
fulfillment may be. Horberg, my friend, erase 
from your heart the name of your wife, to whom 
you have given your love and your name. She 
is not worthy of you ; she is a paramour — the 
paramour of the Crown Prince — perhaps of 
another also. I must imagine that you are as 
sundered from the world as she is from you. I 
can not endure, it rends my very heart, that a 
noble man should continue to cling to a wife 
who is unworthy of him, w T ho has betrayed him. 
Do not curse me if I have destroyed the fairest, 
and perhaps the last dream of your life. I 
must this time do it . I owe it to you, I owe 
it to our friendship. God be with you and 
strengthen you ! 

“ Thy Schrader.” 

The Captain had read with a firm, but al- 
most unmodulated voice. When he had read 
the letter, he calmly folded it up, and put it 
away about his person. 

“ Farewell !” said he ; “I must be alone. 
Fare you well, too, thou kindly angel, with these 
fearful tidings from life !” 

He reached out his hand to the weeping 
maiden. 

He gave his hand to Vorhoff, and was about 
to depart. He looked around to Anna, with a 
sign that she should conduct him back to his 
solitary cell. Vorhoff held him back. 

“ Not so,” said he. “ Do not go at this mo- 
ment, not in this fearful state of mind.” 

Anna took his hand, and looked imploringly 
at him. 

“First accept life and its tidings more fully,” 
said Vorhoff. “ Here are several other let- 
ters. They are from Schrader. Let us read 
them.” 

Horberg remained. He took his seat beside 


his friend upon the straw-bed, in silence. There 
were two other letters which Anna had given 
to her brother-in-law. Geigenfritz had brought 
them at different times. Both were from Schra- 
der. Vorhoff opened them in order to read them 
aloud, in the order of their dates. 

At this moment no one of the three thought 
of their situation and of the danger of discovery. 
They were busy with their happiness and their 
sorrow. Anna only sometimes threw an anx- 
ious glance at the door which stood ajar, or 
listened for any sound from without. Vorhoff 
read out the letters. The first ran thus : 

“ My friends — I write to you all — I know 
not -which of you these lines will reach. May 
they reach you all ! The bearer of this letter 
will tell you, if you have not before learned it, 
the present unfortunate condition of our native 
land. She wall inform you that all your and 
our efforts have been and are fruitless; that the 
Absolutism of the rulers has established itself 
ever more and more firmly, and with its iron 
power presses ever more and more heavily 
upon our poor people. It is every where in 
Germany just as it was when you were drag- 
ged off to prison. But no ! It is otherwise ; 
and your and our efforts have not been alto- 
gether fruitless. The seed of liberty once sown, 
can not die utterly, can not altogether dry up 
and rot in the soil in which it has once been 
cast. It must needs strike roots, even though 
slowly and for a long time under the earth, 
must spread, and at last grow up into the day- 
light, put forth stem, and fruit, and flowers. 
This seed have we sown; it has struck its roots 
down among the people ; it grows on, though 
yet for a time under the earth. But it can not 
remain there much longer. It must come pow- 
erfully forth to the light of day every where 
among the German people, in the German land. 
Events are assuming shape and order. Soon, 
very soon, will the storm dash, the waves will 
beat on the steps of Absolutism, and shatter 
every throne. Will it overthrow them, over- 
throw them soon ? I doubt it ; many of our 
friends hope it. At any rate, something may 
perhaps take place for you, for your liberation 
— perhaps only — only perhaps a long way off. 
I say it without hope, for nothing is more hard- 
hearted than to give false hopes to a hopeless 
captive. Perhaps in the space of a month the 
storm will rage through Germany. Consider 
whether any thing and what can be done foi 
your liberation. Consult with the bearer of 
these lines ; she has as much penetration as 
courage. Above all things, keep up your own 
courage ; think always that the time must nec- 
essarily come when your country will stand in 
need of you. 

“ Your Schrader.” 

“ The second letter !” said Horberg. He 
had remained cold and unmoved. As yet there 
was no space in his heart for any thing except 
for the agony of his wife’s unfaithfulness. 

Vorhoff read the second letter : 


96 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“Events press. The blow will fall in France 
in a few days. All is ready. The stroke will 
follow in Germany. Absolutism herself has 
wrought for it. The example abroad will not 
make it more sharpsighted. but only the more 
blinded. I still doubt whether we shall be suc- 
cessful ; but hold yourself in readiness for any 
event. Consider whether you are not to be set 
at liberty. The old monarch in our little coun- 
try is dead. His grandson — the Crown Prince 
— has assumed the government. He is labor- 
ing almost frantically for our object. Farewell. 

“ Your Schrader.” 

The conclusion of this letter restored a little 
emotion to Horberg ; but he soon fell again into 
his former apathy. Vorhoff was more dis- 
quieted. 

“ Set free ! See them again !” he said. “ But 
how will this ©e possible without violence, un- 
less the revolution is successful, completely suc- 
cessful? And of that he doubts. Even he !” 

He looked toward the girl. “ Anna,” he 
said, “hast thou reflected upon our liberation? 
Is it possible ? But tell us first, brave girl, how 
thou hast succeeded in forcing thy way to us, 
and in bringing us together.” 

“ Not now,” replied she, resuming her entire 
considerateness. I hope I shall often see you 
again. But I have yet other duties. What in- 
telligence have you of Count von Arnstein ? I 
must find him too.” 

“ Arnstein ! Alas, I have no knowledge of, 
him. Neither does Horberg know any thing 
of him.” 

Horberg confirmed this by a nod of the head. 

“Yet he must be here,” said the girl, confi- 
dently, “and most likely in this very tower. 
Do you know any thing of a lady who has been 
brought here within a short time?” 

“ Not a syllable. Who is she ?” 

“The Princess Amelia, the daughter-in-law 
of the old Count Arnstein.” 

Horberg himself was aroused. Vorhoff J s 
curiosity for a moment repressed the interest in 
in his own affairs. 

“The Princess!” he exclaimed. “Arnstein’s 
daughter-in-law! Tell us!” 

The girl listened. 

“ Not now,” she said all at once. “ The bell 
on the castle tower is about to strike eleven. 
At that moment the new watch will be set. 
During the noise I can shut the door without 
being heard. We must separate.” 

Something of the old fire gleamed in Hor- 
berg’s eyes. “Noble maiden,” said he. “Bold- 
ness and penetration ! Let us go !” 

The bell sounded without, and the friends 
separated. Horberg had become a new man 
again. “ Tidings from life have already come 
to us. Life itself will also come again to us,” 
said he. 

Horberg and Anna went out together. Cov- 
ered by the sound of the ringing which was re- 
echoed in the vacant court, Anna closed the 
door of Vorhoff ’s cell without danger. She 


then conducted her companion up the steps into 
his own cell. He kissed the maiden at parting 
from her. 

“ Thou hast brought to me the heaviest tid- 
ings of all my life. Thou art now conducting 
me back to my dungeon. Yet thou art my 
angel,” said he, closing the door. 

Her lips burned with the kiss. Her heart 
dreamed of the pale, unfortunate man. But she 
retained all her faculties. 

She had still two objects to fulfill, objects 
which were the more sacred to her, as they 
concerned her benefactor, Count Edward Arn- 
stein. She would restore to him his father and 
his bride. To these objects must she devote 
herself to-day. Her previous success had given 
her additional courage. She had yet a full hour 
before her. She coolly thought over every thing. 
In the first place she carried the keys to Lewald. 
j She had no further use for them. They had 
i served their purpose ; and a longer possession 
j might betray her. Then she went back into 
the tower. Now she went directly in. If her 
long stay in the tower had not excited the 
j jealousy of the sentinels, she had no suspicions 
against herself to fear. If they stopped her 
and questioned her, some harmless pretext might 
be easily invented ; and no keys or any thing 
suspicious would be found upon her. 

The guards at the tower let her pass without 
hindrance. She knew that no one else occu- 
pied that part of the tower in which Vorhoff 
and Horberg were confined. She therefore 
went into the other part of the tower, through 
the door leading into it. The inner arrange- 
ment was the same as that of the other part. 
It likewise consisted of three stories, in each of 
which the cells were situated upon a dark pas- 
sage. A winding stair led into the upper pas- 
sages. She began her investigations in the lower 
passage. Though she was primarily in search 
of the old Count Arnstein, yet she was also de- 
termined upon finding the Princess Amelia. She 
listened at every single door : knocked gently, 
then listened again; then knocked again louder; 
called low, and then more loudly, the name of 
Arnstein. She received no answer. She could 
hear no sound, no movement within was per- 
ceptible. She went into the second story, and 
repeated her efforts, but with no more success. 

She then betook herself to the third story. 
At the first two doors she knocked and listened 
in vain. She listened at the third door, but- 
heard nothing, She knocked gently at it. It 
seemed as though she heard something move 
within. Her heart beat again. She listened, 
and thought she heard the movement within the 
cell more perceptibly. She knocked again, but 
louder; and could plainly distinguish that there 
was somebody within. It sounded as though he 
was raising himself up. Directly after all was 
still again. The prisoner was probably also 
listening. 

Anna collected all her courage. She called 
out gently the name of Arnstein, with her lips 
close to the door. A^ain she repeated the call. 


THE BAILIFF. 


97 


“ Who calls me?” asked a voice from with- 
in — a deep, manly voice. 

Heavy footsteps came up the winding stairs. 
Anna flew away from the door. A nameless 
agony seized her. Who could it be coming up 
but Sub-officer Lewald ? It was not quite 
noon ; but the soldier might have determined first 
to attend to his own prisoner, in order to go to 
’hose of his comrade at the right time. 

What could she do? How should she act? 
Should she hide herself? She might hide her- 
self under the stairs, in case of need ; but she 
would be lost if discovered. And even if the 
soldier did not discover her, in what danger 
would she be should the prisoner thoughtlessly j 
inform the soldier that somebody had been at his | 
door. She perceived that she must openly meet 
the officer. She must run the risk, and throw 
herself upon her good luck once more. 

She judged rightly. Lewald came into the ' 
passage, with the keys in one hand, and the tin 
basin with the requisite food in the other. 

She came up to him with the utmost possible \ 
unconcern. He was almost startled when he ; 
saw her. 

“ Ho, ho, little busy-body, what are you about 
here ?” he asked, rather in astonishment than 
in anger. Every body liked the good-natured 
maiden. 

“ I had a bit of leisure, and so I took the op- 
portunity to-day of looking about the fortress. 

I wanted to see if there was a fine prospect from 
this tower.” 

She spoke very loudly on purpose, so that the 
prisoner might hear her words. 

“ Ho, ho, little Inquisitive,” cried the sub- 
officer. “ People must look for fine views out- 
side. Nobody must come into this passage ex- 
cept by orders from the Herr Commandant, j 
March out, and don’t let me catch you here 
again, if we are to remain friends.” 

She went out. Her investigations were over j 
for the day. 


CHAPTER X. 

TIIE BAILIFF. 

On the high-road leading to the capital, and 
distant from it about three miles, was situated a 
large and extensive building. From the style 
of architecture, it might be referred to the mid- 
dle of the seventeenth century. It was still in 
good preservation. But the present possessors 
did not appear to have bestowed equal care and 
attention upon all parts of it. It consisted of a 
large central building, and two wings nearly of 
the same dimensions. A flight of steps led up 
to each of these portions. The chief attention 
was evidently bestowed upon the right wing, 
the exterior of which was fresh, clean, and neat. 
In the broad, high windows were great mirror- 
like panes of glass. The steps of the flight of 
stairs were of sandstone, sharply hewn, regularly 
laid, and accurately fitted. The railings were 
of oast-iron, of ornamental and artistic form, and 
G 


painted of a shining black. A wide door, of a 
bright brown wood, led into the interior. The 
decided elegance of the interior was prefigured 
by the tastefully arranged curtains, of heavy 
silken stuff, behind the windows, and by the 
rare plants and flowers which ornamented the 
window-sills. The front of the central building 
showed less freshness and elegance. The left 
wing had a somewhat naked and bare aspect. 

The proprietor appeared to occupy the right 
wing. The central building would seem to 
have been appropriated for the residence of the 
assistants, or if the proprietor belonged to the 
magistracy, to the subordinates, and for offices. 
The left wing might be the residence of the do- 
mestics, or was, perhaps, altogether uninhabited, 
and devoted to storehouses for provisions and 
such purposes. Such was the exterior appear- 
ance of the establishment. 

A broad avenue of poplars led up to the house 
from the highway, terminating at the principal 
gate of the court, directly opposite the steps in 
front of the central building. The court was 
spacious, and formed a quadrangle, on the two 
longer sides of which were rows of outbuildings 
and stalls. 

In the rear of the edifice was an extensive 
park-like garden, of which only the portions 
near the house were under cultivation. In the 
forest portions of it, lying further back, as well 
as in the parts behind the shrubbery, every 
thing appeared to be running to waste. The 
hand of the gardener arranging, clearing-up, 
selecting and pruning, had not been present here 
for a long time. For years, perhaps, these parts 
of the garden had scarcely been visited by a 
human foot. The rank briers in the shrubbery, 
the tall grass in the alleys and foot-paths, the 
partially demolished railings to the bridges 
across the brooks and ditches, the entrances to 
the arbors almost grown up, the fallen pavilions, 
and many similiar tokens, would at least justify 
the conclusion of such a want of visitation. 

Buildings and parks, broad fields, pastures, 
meadows, and forests lying around, together with 
the large and wealthy villages in the neighbor- 
hood, had formerly been the patrimony of the 
Counts von Arnstein. Here was the original 
seat of the family. This property was a family 
entail, from which fact it underwent a singular 
fate. The old Count Arnstein had, long before 
the process for high-treason was brought against 
him, disposed of his whole property, party to his 
wife, and partly by transfer to his son. He was 
induced to do this by a forethought which should 
never be neglected by men who in the commo- 
tions of their times stand opposed to Absolutism 
But in regard to this estate, which was called 
Rosenstein, he had not thought a similar pre- 
caution necessary. As a family entail, it would, 
moreover, in any case, fall to his son, from whom, 
according to law, it could under no circumstances 
and under no pretext be taken. In this opinion 
he had, to be sure, reckoned upon the integrity 
of the courts of law. Here he had miscalculated. 
After he had been convicted of high-treason, and 


98 


ANNA HAMMER. 


tbe confiscation of all his property had conse- 
quently been decreed, the estate of Rosenstein, 
without any further proceedings was taken pos- 
session of by the Treasury. The unfortunate wile 
of the Count had indeed protested against the 
seizure, in the name of her absent son, but no 
notice was taken of the protest. The estate was j 
declared to be a royal domain, was incorporated 
with the neighboring royal domains ; and, as it 
presented many advantages for that purpose, the 
seat of the royal bailiwick was removed thither. 

The Government showed itself here, after its 
fashion, very gracious and merciful. It indem- 
nified the servants of the Count who were upon 
the estate at the time of the seizure. A resi- 
dence was even allowed in the house to the old 
castellan. This was granted to him in the left 
wing of the chateau. There w T as plenty of , 
room there; since in this neglected and almost; 
ruined part, no one lived but himself. 

In the central building were the offices and ■ 
residences of the subordinates of the Bailiff. The j 
Bailiff and his family occupied the right wing. 

The Bailiff. Baron von Lilienthal sat by the 
window of the sitting-room on the lower floor of 
his elegant and spacious official residence. He 
was a tall, meagre man, with a dark complexion, 
black eyes and hair. The peasants said of him, 
that his heart was as black as was his hair, and 
eyes, and the black coat which he usually wore. 
He was smoking his morning pipe, and as he in- 
haled the pleasant favor of the fine Turkish 
tobacco, his eyes glanced, now at display of 
flowers which were standing upon the window 
*?at by him, now upon the stir and business 
in the court of the chateau, which lay before 
him ; and then beyond that upon the lane which 
led to the high-road, along the high-road itself, 
and still further beyond, into the blue distance. 
Who can describe, or even imagine, the thoughts 
that, perhaps, directing his view, or directed by 
it, passed through his ever-busy, ever-calculating, 
ever-planning head ? Of a soothing or satis- 
factory kind they could not be ; for the look of 
the man was gloomy, and denoted nothing of the 
inner repose of one who can look with satisfac- 
tion about him, back upon his past life, and for- 
ward to the future. 

Some one knocked gently at the door. The 
Bailiff heard it, but he paid no attention to it; 
or rather he did bestow attention upon it — his 
countenance showed that he knew r well enough 
who it was that knocked, but that his position in 
respect to the person did not permit an immedi- 
ate admission of him, but demanded a repetition 
of the humble request. After a little while the 
knocking was repeated, but no more urgently or 
loader. 

“Come in !” said the Bailiff, gruffly. 

“ A little dried up manikin opened the door 
very softly, and only just wide enough to give 
him the needful space to creep in. This in- ' 
dividual, with his long-drawn, pale countenance, 
his short, thick nose, his grey eyes, his smoothly- 
combed gray hair, his thin lens, long fingers, 
am! his hu g. old-fashioned hh< k-ooat, had most 


thoroughly the aspect of a subaltern official, 
whose servility to his superiors was made of the 
same stuff as his harshness and arrogance to his 
inferiors. 

“ A most respectful good-morning,” Herr 
Bailiff” 

The Bailiff gave him a very negligent nod 
of the head, after he had turned slowly around 
toward him. 

The little man stood with body bent and head 
turned toward the Bailiff, saying nothing, but 
apparently waiting for permission to speak. 

“The order of the day?” asked the Bailifl. 

Who can tell how this man of Absolutism came 
by this phrase of constitut ional, parliamentary life, 
by which he understood the order of business for 
the day? The hypocritical playing with con- 
stitutional forms and expressions had not yet 
been begun in Germany. In this question of the 
Bailiff lay the command for the little withered 
man to speak. 

“ There is but one thing on the docket to- 
day,” he replied; “but the affair may occupy 
the whole day. It’s the collection of the ground- 
taxes in arrears from the contumacious farmers.” 

“ Has the corps of assistance arrived ?” 

“ Ever since yesterday evening. Twenty dra- 
goons — picked men, who will inspire proper 
respect for the laws. The sergeant, who an- 
nounced himself to me late last evening, seems 
a very determined man.” 

“ Very well. In fact, I don’t like this military 
support. The Chamber should not have sent 
them to us. They corrupt the popular mind for 
the future. Our mere authority, our moral power 
over the people, is no longer sufficient. We 
shall always, or at least still more frequently than 
heretofore, be obliged to have recourse to such 
military aid.” 

“ I beg your gracious pardon, Herr Bailiff, if 
I venture to say that I am of a different opinion 
in this matter.” 

“ Well, let us hear.” 

“ The peasant, gracious sir, has respect for 
moral power only when and because he knows 
that physical power stands behind it ; and hence 
it is very well that this should sometimes appear. 
This enlarges the moral power.” 

“ That’s your opinion,” said the Bailiff, some- 
what slightingly. 

The subaltern seemed to have fallen upon a 
theme which, in spite of his servility, he was 
unwilling to abandon so summarily. “ The 
peasant,” he went on to say, “ is usually a rude 
material being, who respects the law only be- 
cause there are constables and executors in the 
world — ” 

“ Every body is so !” interrupted the Bailiff 
“ Meanwhile what is the use of debating the 
matter? Have you, Herr Actuary, taken care 
that all is ready on your part?” 

“ At your service.” 

“Very well : you can go.” 

The servant of the Bailiff entered, and handed 
him a document. 

“Stop; it’s something official,” said t!.e 


THE BAILIFF. 


99 


Bailiff to the Actuary, while he was opening 
the missive. His brow grew dark while he 
read it. 

“ These priests are very presuming,” said he 
angrily, after he had read the paper through. 

The Actuary bowed in token of assent. 

“ We’ve got more work to-day. The new 
preacher is to be installed.” 

“ That, with all deference, can hardly be done 
to-day. Will not the gracious Herr put a check 
upon the demands of the cleroy ?” 

“ It is no longer a demand of theirs ; it is the 
order of the Ministry. As the troops are now 
here, according to the opinion of the Superintend- 
ent, this opportunity should be embraced for 
the installation of the pastor.” 

“ The cpiritual lord thinks he can not get 
quickly enough into possession of his fat bene- 
fice,” remarked the Actuary somewhat spitefully. 
He added with a chuckle of satisfaction : 44 Well, 
that will make a pretty piece of work and ex- 
citement among the people to-day. First, the 
execution for the taxes, for which the suit has 
been going on and accumulating costs for years ; 
and now the installation of the clergyman whom 
the congregation do not want, and against whom 
they have for years protested. There will be 
something to do.” 

44 Have every thing ready beforehand in the 
church and the parsonage. Give information 
also to the church elders, the schoolmaster, the 
sexton, and whoever else belong to the church.” 

“And the congregation?” 

“The elders represent the congregation.” 

44 Must not some other members of the con- 
gregation be made acquainted ? There must 
be some kind of service held.” 

44 We must not accord too many rights to the 
people. Whoever wishes to attend the celebra- 
tion, can do so of himself.” 

“Has the Herr Bailiff any further orders?” 

A motion of the hand dismissed the Actuary. 
The wife of the Bailiff now came in through a 
side door. She was a tall, haughty-looking lady, 
in a gay silk morning-gown. Her whole figure 
might lay claim, even yet, to beauty. 

The features of the gloomy-looking man did 
not clear up at the sight of the lady. 

44 You came back late from the capital yes- 
terday !” said she, in a tone half of inquiry, half 
of reproach. 

“There was a military concert in the court 
garden, and there were many nobles there, " was 
the reply. 

He walked up and down the apartment. She 
went up to the window and arranged the flow- 
ers. It seemed as though each had something 
in mind against the other, but did not dare to 
bring it forward. 

“ We are to have company from the capital 
this evening,” said the lady, after a while. 

44 So soon again !” 

“ How long since you began to dislike com- 
pany ?” 

The Bailiff was silent for a moment, and 
paced the apartment with long strides. Then 


all at once he came up to the lady, and said 
with emphasis : 44 Ever since they have cost me 
more than I can pay.” 

“ Only see !” rejoined the lady, not without 
scorn. “ And how long has society for your 
wife and daughters cost you more than your 
own ?” 

44 How long ? You are right. It would be 
hard to fix upon the beginning. It has always 
cost more.” 

“Your gambling and hunting comrades, your 
drinking-bouts, public and private, have they 
cost so little ?” 

“I have never been extravagant. I have 
always — ” 

The lady laughed. 

“Never,” he repeated. “I have always 
lived simply, and only kept up the establish- 
ment which my rank and my position in society 
required. But your extravagance — yours and 
your daughters’, passes all bounds. This waste- 
fulness in clothing, in equipages, in attendance, 
this eternal going to the capital, this attending 
concerts, balls, banquets — ” 

44 Did I marry you just to renounce all claims 
and pretensions to a position in the highest cir- 
cles ? just to shut myself up with you in a 
gloomy old house in the woods ; just to aban- 
don every thing ? And do you wish to condemn 
your daughters to such a fate ?” 

“Who talks about any such thing? There 
is a difference between perfect seclusion and the 
most enormous extravagance. But let us talk 
without reproaches and without passion. I have 
for a long time been determined to explain our 
condition to you. It is my duty. Wife, we are 
deeply in debt.” 

He looked at her with his gloomy eyes, as 
though he was unwilling to lose any of the im- 
pression, which he thought these words must 
make upon her. Her eyes met his with perfect 
coolness. 

44 It isn’t my fault,” said she, shrugging her 
shoulders. 

44 Perhaps it’s my fault?” he asked fiercely. 

“ So I think.” 

41 You think ! Is this the reward of my five- 
and-twenty years’ — ” 

44 My dear husband, Frederick the Great once 
said to a sergeant who complained to him of 
poverty, 4 Why, did I tie you to the manger, you 
ass ?’ For almost twenty years you have had 
the bailiffsbip — the richest in the land. Why 
have you exercised it in such a manner that we 
are in debt?” 

44 The reproach is bitter, very bitter, when 1 
reflect upon what I have done for your sake. 
Woman, do you think that I can lay my head 
down quietly at night ? that I am not full of 
anxiety, day and night, lest complaints and visit- 
ations should come, that — let me speak the word 
out — that might bring me to the scaffold ?” 

44 Who would fear the canaille?” she said, 
scornfully. “ Only have courage, and they will 
be afraid of you.” 

44 In these times of commotion ? In Paris the 


100 


ANNA HAMMER. 


revolution has already broken out. The popular 
feeling, increasing every where and all about us. 
grows perilous.” 

“ And do you believe in such fancies, cobwebs 
of the brain ?” 

“ If the consciousness of the people is arous- 
ed, it will not stop at dreaming.” 

“ It will stop at dreaming with us ; put your- 
self at ease about that. But let us break off | 
this talk, and let me come back to my petition, j 
Captain von Kessel will visit us to-day. I men- 
tion this to you, in order to unite my request 
with this intelligence.” 

He sighed. “ Another request so soon !” 

“ The Captain is paying his addresses to our 
Albertine. The parti is certainly not brilliant, 
he is no longer young, at most he can only get 
to be a lieutenant-colonel some day or other, and 
his means are inconsiderable. Albertine, on 
account of her figure and education, could make 
much higher pretensions. Nevertheless I am in 
favor of the match, and for the following rea- 
sons : The Baron von Wittlich, who is so im- 
mensely rich, has for some time been very 
attentive to our Ottilie. Ottilie is not pretty, 
and she is already four-and-twenty years old. 
The old, somewhat simple Baron von Wittlich 
is almost blindly devoted to the will of his friend 
and countryman, Kessel. If Kessel marries our 
Albertine, the match between Wittlich and Ot- 
tilie is as good as made. You can see the ad- 
vantages of the connection.” 

“ Well !” 

“ Well ? The consequence is very simple. 
Kessel, an old acquaintance, I might invite here 
to-day. But to invite Wittlich, without having 
more company with us, would betray the object 
too plainly ; and you know that when a man 
sees such a design he is repelled. We must be- 
fore long have a good deal of company with us. 
For this purpose, again, several arrangements, 
repairs, and such like, are requisite. I particu- 
larly wish that the park, which has been wholly 
neglected, should be put in order. The Baron 
Wittlich has been in England, and prides him- 
self on possessing a taste in matters relating to 
parks. If our park is put in order, Ottilie can 
ramble about in it with him. There are in it j 
very pleasant and private spots ; the summer ] 
evenings are beautiful; Ottilie is wide-awake, 1 
and he is simple. You will perceive — ” 

“ That all this will cost me a heavy sum of j 
money. Parties — one will not answer the pur- ; 
pose — you seem already to have counted upon a j 
whole series of them ; repairs to the house ; ' 
probably new furniture ; and finally a complete 
re-ordering the great park, which has been neg- j 
lected for years ; — have you ever calculated | 
what all this will cost ?” 

“ As far as the park goes, you give yourself 
unnecessary alarm. You have peasants enough 
within your jurisdiction ; have them drafted. , 
The expense will be limited to barely a single j 
gardener from the capital.” 

“ Grant that ; still the sum which you ask of 
me remains very large ; for the present it is 


utterly out of my reach. I shall be obliged to 
borrow. And, to tell the truth, I am afraid, 
from many symptoms, that my credit is gone 
too.” 

“ Coward ! if you are afraid of that, all is 
surely lost. It is with credit as it is with cour- 
age. You lose it only when you are afraid.” 

“ Under a thousand dollars — ” 

“ You can get that !” 

“ Impossible.” 

“ Shame on you to utter the word, when it 
comes just to a trifling sacrifice for the good of 
your child — of both your children. What is to 
become of your two unprovided daughters, if 
your affairs are really as desperate as you re- 
present them ?” 

“ They are so.” 

“Very well; then your duty as a father de- 
mands doubly that you should seize the oppor- 
tunity to establish the fortune of your daughters, 
and thereby, at the same time — do not overlook 
that — thereby secure our own existence.” 

He made no reply, and seemed to have no 
further suggestion to make. 

“ Then it. stands as we have settled,” said she, 
in a peremptory tone, and left the room. 

“ Settled ?” said he to himself in astonish- 
ment. “What have I settled with her? But, 
perhaps, there is no other way.” 

A servant announced a stranger, who wished 
to speak with the Herr Bailiff. 

“ His name ?” 

“ He would not give it. He will tell it only 
to your Worship.” 

“ 1 can not admit him unless he previously 
sends up his name.” 

The servant went out ; but returned in a few 
moments. 

“ The stranger will not be put off,” he said. 
“ He says that he has come from the capital, 
and upon business of great importance.” 

“ Let him in,” said the Bailiff, after an un- 
easy delay. 

The stranger entered. A long nose, a pair 
of sharp, piercing eyes, a noiseless tread, gave 
him a striking appearance. He bowed to the 
Bailiff without speaking, and remained quietly 
standing till the servant had left the room 
and closed the door after him. Then he ad- 
vanced. 

“ Herr Bailiff, I have the honor to present 
myself. I am Commissioner of Police, Adler, 
from the capital.” 

“ Your wish ?” 

“ The police are in pursuit of a very danger- 
ous offender. This offender is residing in your 
house.” 

“ Sir, in my house ?” 

“ In this building, at all events.” 

“ I beg you to express yourself more pre- 
cisely. In this building have I my official res- 
idence. In my official residence there is, there 
can be, no criminal ; for that I pledge myself. 
The remainder of the building belongs to the 
Sovereign.” 

“ I beg your pardon ; you are perfectly right 


THE BAILIFF. 


101 


The criminal has been entertained by the former 
castellan of the Count Arnstein.” 

“ I am entirely ignorant of the fact.” 

“So it is reported at the capital. I have in 
charge to arrest the person, and am come to 
seek your assistance.” 

“ What is the name of the person ?” 

“ I regret that I am unable to inform you.” 

“That is singular.” 

“ So run my orders.” 

“ What is the person’s crime?” 

“ That also I can not inform you. It has not 
even been imparted to me.” 

The Bailiff looked distrustfully at the stranger. 
He remarked thus, and drew out his medal, and 
showed it to the Bailiff. 

“ My recognition-medal, as Police-Commis- 
sary,” said he. u You can not be unacquainted 
with it.” 

“ Certainly not. Meanwhile, you will ac- 
knowledge that the peculiarity of the case just- 
ifies, nay, compels me to ask of you an imme- 
diate and special warrant against the prisoner.” 

“ Most fully. I will do myself the honor to 
furnish this to you.” 

He drew a paper from his pocket, and read : 

“The Police-Commissioner, Adler, is charged 
by me with the arrest of the man below de- 
scribed, wherever the same may be found. All 
functionaries of the country are directed to give 
assistance to the aforesaid Adler.” 

“ Do you wish to see the signature of the 
Minister ?” 

“ I should wish so to do.” 

By a sudden turn the police-officer held the 
paper before the eyes of the Bailiff, who cast a 
quick but keen glance over it. A peculiar ex- 
pression manifested itself at the same moment 
in both their faces, which the most keen-sighted 
observer of mankind could not more closely de- 
fine. 

“ The description ?” asked the Bailiff, half- 
interrogatively, half-imperatively. 

The Commissary of Police read as follows : 

“ Age : about twenty-five years. Figure : 
tall and slender. Nose : aquiline. Eyes : blue. 
Mouth : ordinary. Hair : red. Particular to- 
kens : wears a black plaster over the left eye.” 

He went on to explain : 

“ You will have the goodness to notice that 
the red hair is a wig, and the plaster all a 
sham.” 

“ In what manner do you desire my assist- 
once?” 

“ I know nothing of the criminal except his 
description and residence ; but of his way of life, 
and of the interior construction of that portion 
of the building where he resorts, I have no in- ! 
telligence at all. I pray you to inform me of 
these, so that we may be able to form our plans 
together. 

The Bailiff replied, after some consideration : 

“ You will perceive that, as I too have been j 
until the present moment wholly ignorant of the 
criminal, I must for my part insist upon further 
information. You will further acknowledge that 


the affair must be conducted with the utmost 
foresight and discretion.” 

“ When can I wait upon you again?” 

“ In two hours.” 

The Commissary of police withdrew. 

The Bailiff looked after him with a peculiarly 
uneasy expression. As soon as he was at a 
moderate distance in the court, he sprang hastily 
to the bell. 

“ The Actuary ! Let him come this instant !” 
ho ordered the servant. Then turning around 
he said to himself : “ The thousand dollars for 
the visitors from the capital are found.” 

“Dear Holstein, have you lately noticed any 
thing suspicious about the old castellan?” 

“ I don’t know any thing. I don’t have much 
to do with the man or his family ; but any thing 
suspicious must have come under my observation. 
The people live very quiet and retired.” 

“ Of how many members does the family con- 
sist ?” 

“ The old man lives alone with his daughter, 
a widow, an invalid, and without children. For 
a short time there has been a nephew with him, 
a — ” 

“ Well !” 

“ Likewise a very retiring person.” 

“His appearance ? His age ?” 

“ Somewhere about twenty or twenty-five 
years old, a tall figure, but not ill-grown.” 

“ What more ?” 

“ Red hair — ” 

“ Ha ! and a black plaster over his eye ?” 

“ Right ! The Herr Bailiff seems to have 
seen him already.” 

“ How does the young man get his living?” 

“ They say he is a student, and lost his eye. 
in a duel. In order to strengthen his other eye 
by the free air, he is stopping here with his 
uncle.” 

“ And how does he pass his time ?” 

“ He is almost always at home ; only he spends 
the noon and evening hours in the park. There 
he passes most of the time in the thick shrub- 
bery, for there the light and air are the most 
beneficial. My children see him frequently near 
the ruined Chinese pavilion, very frequently in it.” 

“ About noon, you say ?” 

“ Usually from twelve o’clock till three, when 
the heat is greatest. The air is the coolest 
under the thick trees and by the brook.” 

“ Dear Holstein, the man is a great criminal, 
and the police are in chase of him.” 

“ Oh, awful !” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ The poor castellan. Are we to arrest him 
too ?” 

Face of subaltern has seldom worn a more 
maliciously joyous expression than did that of the 
Actuary Holstein at that moment. 

“ Has there any thing come to the office ?” he 
asked. 

“ Not that. I have received intelligence in 
another manner. There must be something 
peculiar in the affair ; there seems to be a secret 
hidden in it.” 


102 


ANNA HAMMER. 


“Eh, eh, a secret?” 

“ My dear Holstein, can I trust to you en- 
tirely ?” 

“ As you would your own self, 1 would an- 
swer, if such an answer would not sound pre- 
sumptuous.” 

“ A few minutes ago, a criminal Commissary 
from the capital was here, with a special charge 
from the Ministry to arrest this man. He de- 
sired my assistance, and I demanded his creden- 
tials. It was singular that no public advertise- 
ment pointed out the man designated as a dan- 
gerous criminal ; then I was still more struck 
by the mysterious demeanor of the Commissary, 
especially by his unwillingness to show me his 
documents. Naturally I became still more at- 
tentive, and judge of my surprise when I learned 
a quite unexpected explication of the secret ; in 
spite of the politic care of the policeman, I dis- 
covered by a hasty glance at the papers, that a 
reward of three hundred louis d ? ors was offered 
for the apprehension of the criminal.” 

“ Three hundred — ” 

“ Louis dors. The scoundrel wishes to cheat 
the servants of the office of what — at least the 
half of it — is undoubtedly due for their assist- 
ance in the affair.” 

“ What has the gracious Herr decided upon ?” 
asked the Actuary, with kindling eyes. 

“ We must now come to a decision, dear Hol- 
stein — you and I.” 

“ Your most obsequious servant.” 

“ I have appointed the fellow to be back in 
a couple of hours, in order to arrange further 
with him. In the mean time, do you give your 
advice.” 

“The case appears to me very simple. First 
of all, there must be no noise made about it.” 

“ Right ! The affair must, as far as possible, 
be kept between ourselves now as well as in 
future. You must, for your part, undertake the 
independent conduct and execution of the busi- 
ness ; and your name only must appear. I 
should be compromised by any direct intermix- 
ture with the affair, for the police-officer has 
conferred with me. I will at once pay you the 
sum fixed upon as your share, so that your 
portion will be sure at any rate.” 

“ Your most humble servant.” 

“ What next ?” 

“ I will give orders to your two Jagers. The 
man is alone. They will be sufficient. It is a 
single beast — and a sick one at that — that they 
are to hunt in a close thicket, with which they 
are well acquainted. It can not escape them.” 

“Admirable! The Jagers are perfectly 
trustworthy and secret.” 

“ Your honor shall have a covered carriage 
in readiness. I will at once get ready the re- 
port to the Minister. In the report I will say 
that I received intelligence, by accident, of the 
dangerous criminal who is herewith sent ; and 
I had not failed, since his flight was to be sus- 
pected, to apprehend him as speedily as pos- 
sible, without venturing to wait for a special 
higher order. We will pack up the man, with 


the report and the Jagers, in the carriage., and 
he will be in the Minister’s ante-chamber when 
the Herr Commissioner is flattering himself that 
he is to be caught here ” 

“ And I will fix the time with him this 
evening.” 

“ Under the pretext that the execution and 
the installation of the clergymen will not per- 
mit an earlier hour.” 

“ Do you make all the preparations forth- 
with.” 

“ On the spot.” 

The Actuary withdrew, with a countenance 
in which satisfaction was plainly visible. “ A 
hundred louis d'ors of the three hundred belong 
to me,” he said to himself. 

But the Bailiff reckoned differently: “One 
louis dor must be paid to each of the Jagers ; 
eighteen are quite enough for the little dried- 
up scoundrel ; so there will be two hundred and 
eighty for me.” 

He had scarcely completed his very simple 
calculation, when several voices were heard 
before the door, speaking together loudly and 
with apparent eagerness. He could definitely 
distinguish only that of his servant, who seemed 
to be opposing the others. After the discussion 
had lasted for a while, the door was all at once 
flung violently open. Within the doorway stood 
the servant, with five peasants in front of him. 
The servant was vainly endeavoring to close the 
door again, *and the peasants were striving to 
gain admittance. The stout arms of the coun- 
try-people tossed and hustled him aside after a 
brief struggle, like a ball of feathers. The 
peasants, taking off their hats, advanced, into 
the chamber of the Bailiff; one of them went in 
front, the others followed, two and two. 

They had forced their way in so suddenly, 
that the Bailiff had no time to form a definite 
plan for his conduct, still less to summon his 
servants to his aid. His conduct toward the 
peasants, of whose object, in connection with 
the execution of the day, he could not entertain 
the slightest doubt, might certainly present some 
difficulties. He had indeed heretofore express- 
ed himself to the Actuary in the usual abso- 
lutist phrases, that the people were to be looked 
on merely as the misera contribuens plebs — as 
the “ masses,” who are only to be counted as 
tax-payers ; that they must be kept in uncon- 
ditional subjection, and that no rights must bo 
accorded to them. But for a short time past — . 
since the July revolution had broken out in 
Paris, which had occasioned a great movement 
throughout all Germany, a movement all the 
more critical because merely preliminary — the 
practical tendency of his propositions had seem- 
ed to him more and more dubious, the more he 
was forced to acknowledge to himself that if 
ever law should yield to violence, his own posi- 
tion would be any thing but tenable. In Ger- 
many, in the summer of 1830, though she but 
feebly used the sword of retribution, the Neme- 
sis stood at least in a threatening attitude, and 
displayed the sword to the vision of many a 


THE BAILIFF. 


103 


German villain, so that he grew pale and trem- 
bled ; though he afterward became only so 
much the more impudent and haughty. The 
Bailiff von Lilienthal was meanwhile too much 
of an aristocrat, and at the same time bureau- 
crat, not to get rid of this idea for the present. 

He placed himself directly in front of the 
peasants who were entering, and accosted them 
in a loud voice, and gave his dark eye its most 
threatening expression. 

u Those who wish any thing from me must 
announce themselves in the office-room yonder ; 
you know that of old.” 

“ Herr Bailiff,” said the foremost of the peas- 
ants, in a quiet, almost apprehensive tone, “we 
have been in the office-room, and asked for a 
hearing from you. But they refused to call you.” 

“Very correctly, for the office-hour has not 
yet struck. The moment it strikes I shall be 
there. Here I grant you no audience.” 

He pointed with his hand to the door, to sig- 
nify to the peasants that they must withdraw ; 
and then turned his back upon them. The 
peasants, however, remained quietly standing, 
and their speaker again accosted him : 

“ Herr Bailiff,” said he, “ when the office- 
hour strikes, the execution is to begin ; and then 
it will be too late for what we have to say to 
you. You must give us a hearing in this place.” 

“I must? I must? Which of you can order 
me ? Here in my own apartment ! Away 
from here on the instant !” 

“ Herr Bailiff, we demand that you should 
hear us, and it is ) r our duty to hear us.” 

“Not in my private apartments. Here I am 
master, as you are in your own chambers. I 
will make use of my house-right, if you do not 
withdraw instantly.” 

“ Herr Bailiff, you are a magistrate ; you must 
listen to the people ; for that purpose you are 
paid by the State.” 

“By us I” cried one of the peasants. “We 
poor peasants have to pay the taxes, and the 
high salaries of the magistrates !” 

“ I hear no one in this apartment,” repeated 
the Bailiff; “I will use force to maintain my 
house-right.” 

“ Do not do that,” replied the first speaker. 
“The whole village is close at hand. Force 
might do no good.” 

“I will hear you in the office-room.” 

“ Here too. It amounts to the same thing.” 

“ Speak.” 

“ Herr Bailiff, we come to you as deputies of 
the whole community. I speak in the name of 
the community. This village, so long as men’s 
memory runs — and longer ; as far back as the 
oldest records reach — has belonged to the Counts 
of Arnstein. The administration of the estate 
was always a generous administration, especially 
that of the last Count. The peasantry were not 
here pinched and sucked. We received all pos- 
sible alleviations. As long as we can call to 
mind, we have not paid the whole of the land- 
tax to the State. The proprietor bore half of 
them, and credited it to us in our payments to 


him. The Count assured us, by way of cove- 
nant, that he did not wish that the poor peasant 
should alone bear all the taxes, and doubled, for 
the rich proprietors. That was just and right. 
We must pay our heavy dues to the proprietors 
of our blood and our produce, of money and corn, 
we must work for them with hand and team. 
And besides this, we must also pay the state- 
taxes : land-taxes, poll-taxes, road-taxes, village- 
taxes, war-taxes, university-taxes, and whatever 
else they call them. The noblemen and the 
proprietors contribute nothing to this : those who 
also possess almost all the land, and enjoy all, 
or the greater portion, of the benefit of all the 
taxes. We poor peasants, and the citizens in 
the towns it is, and we alone, who have to sup- 
port the State, and the nobles into the bargain. 
That this was unjust, our Count saw ; and there- 
fore he was willing at least to bear the half of the 
land-tax with us. This lasted till the Treasury 
took possession of the estate. Since then, we 
have had to pay the land-tax alone. You, Herr 
Bailiff, or your officer, will not allow the sum in 
our payments. We have brought suits. We 
have lost our suits. We have been adjudged to 
pay up all the back payments of the last years. 
The process of execution will proceed against us 
to-day.” 

“Well, and what will you have, in op- 
position to the legal decision?” interrupted the 
Bailiff. 

The speaker continued : “ The legal decision 
is an unjust one. It has been made by depend- 
ent judges. The Treasury has no claim at all 
against us. There is a rightful owner to this 
estate, and that is the young Count von Arn- 
stein. We are held to labor and pay to him 
only. But even if this were not so, it is at all 
events bound by the agreement which the Count 
made with us.” 

“ I can not understand,” said the Bailiff, “ why 
you always return to grounds which decisions, 
made according to law, have long since set 
aside.” 

“ According to laws which have been per- 
verted by the judges — according to laws which 
give no rights to the people. We rest upon th&* 
natural law, according to which every person in 
the State, the great as well as the small, musthav* 
rights. The times are about to change, Hen- 
Bailiff. We humble people can not longer be 
kept in ignorance. The French have just driven 
away their king, who would also give his people 
no rights. The German is as good as the 
Frenchman, Herr Bailiff.” 

“ You threaten rebellion — ” 

“ We do not threaten. We are come to you 
with a quiet and peaceful petition, that you would 
delay the present execution, and once more lav 
our rights before the Ministry.” 

“ The execution will proceed to-day — in an 
hour,” said the Bailiff, with great decision. 

“ Herr Bailiff, it will not proceed,” said the 
peasant, with equal decision. 

“ We shall see.” 

“Are you going to control us with 


your 


104 


ANNA HAMMER, 


couple of men ? The whole village stand as one 
man. Don’t cause any misfortune.” 

“ I do my duty. You bring down the mis- 
fortune upon yourselves.” 

“ Herr Bailiff, think upon youself. You have 
made yourself many enemies here — with or 
without good cause — you may best judge your- 
self of that.” 

“ I can only laugh at such impudent threats.” 

“ He laughs best who laughs last.” 

“ You have your answer.” 

‘‘We have warned you, Herr Bailiff. The 
community is the more excited, because it is 
said that the new preacher is to be forcibly in- 
stituted to-day.” 

“ That will take place.” 

“ That too is unjust. For centuries the congre- 
gation has elected and called its own preacher.” 

“ The patronage belongs to the estate. The 
possessors can not alienate it.” 

“ We will not here inquire into that. It is 
i mural and reasonable that the congregation it- 
self, and not a third party, should give itself a 
preacher, for he should be their pastor. But the 
congregation must object, when just the man is 
forced upon them whose hypocrisy, avarice, covet- 
ousness, and falsehood have made him obnoxious 
to all the congregations with whom he has 
hitherto been.” 

“ The Upper Consistory know him only as a 
pious man.” 

“ Because he is a hypocrite- — a canting hypo- 
crite. They are determined not to know any 
thing else of him. But once more, Herr Bailiff, 
abstain to-day from force. There will be blood- 
shed, and the blood will fall upon you.” 

“ Ridiculous !” 

“ We have done our duty. We can no longer 
restrain the members of the congregation ; for 
the peasants will not permit their rights to be 
taken from them.” 

The peasant would have said more ; but his 
companions prevented him. With repressed 
wrath they said, “ Come, neighbor, there’s no 
use of talking here.” 

They departed. The Bailiff looked after them 
with an aspect by no means so satisfied as that 
with which he had not long before counted up 
in his own mind the three hundred lonis d ’ ors. 


In the remotest portion of the Park belong- 
ing to the estate, a tall, slender young man was 
walking slowly, and with his head bent down. 

His animated eye — only one was visible, the 
other being covered by a broad black patch — had 
a troubled expression. He was walking in a 
broad alley shaded by linden trees; on both 
sides of which was a tangled wilderness. The 
trees which bordered the avenue, seemed not yet 
to have forgotten the early care of the gardener, 
which they had known for many years. Their 
trunks rose up straight and tall, and their 
branches were formed into round and well- 
formed heads. This made the wildness and neg- 
lect of the remainder the more apparent. Dry 


twigs which had fallen down, lay every where 
in the avenue, under, above, and amongst which 
grew up rank weeds, wild grass, and black moss. 
The thicket on both sides had become an almost 
impenetrable mass of thorns, underbrush, and 
bushes of all sorts. A narrow path which wound 
its way through, was hardly passable. It led to 
a brook which crept slowly along, for its current 
was obstructed by the broad and dense growth 
of reeds which reached almost to the middle. A 
bridge had formerly crossed the brook ; a loose 
plank, which had perhaps recently been placed 
there, now joined its banks. On the other side, 
between two lofty overshadowing elms, stood a 
pavilion of Chinese architecture, in the taste ol 
the preceding century. This was in a ruinous 
condition ; the steps of the flights of stairs which 
led up to it from two sides, were full of holes, 
and apparently so rotten that one would scarcely 
venture to trust himself upon them. 

The young man — Count Edward von Arn- 
stein — paced slowly up the alley of lindens. His 
eye might perhaps be cognizant of the desola- 
tion and confusion within as well as without tire 
avenue. 

The chateau had formerly been the almost 
invariable summer residence of his parents. 
Here, too, he had passed the earliest years of 
his childhood. Remembrances of that time, 
partly obscure, but partly of a more vivid char- 
acter, passed through his mind. The Chinese 
pavilion, and that part, of the park which lay 
about it. had been his favorite resort. Here he 
had many a time sat with his parents, and lis- 
tened to their conversation. Here had he taken 
leave of them, when he set out for Geneva 
Here had he seen them together for the last 
time, upon their native soil. Every thing was 
now different from what it then was : the av- 
enue, the thicket, the brook, the pavilion. The 
entire park was then smooth and level, carefully 
tended and arranged ; so also at that time did 
life lie for him and before his eyes, leveled and 
arranged. The park was now a wilderness; 
and was his life less so? He had received no 
tidings of his father or of his wife. Both were 
lost for him. What had he to carry back to his 
sorrowful mother ? Only his own self, and that 
too with a life from which that great loss had 
gnawed away the innermost core. 

All his efforts to discover his bride, who had 
so suddenly disappeared, had been unavailing; 
not the slightest trace of her could he find. Nor 
could it long be concealed from him, that he 
himself was the object of a secret but only so 
much more zealous pursuit, the source and oc- 
casion of which he could not doubt. But how 
great soever might be the danger in which he 
stood, he could not altogether abandon his search. 
In order to carry this on the more effectually, 
he made himself known to the castellan at the 
chateau, who had for many years been the faith- 
ful servant of his parents. Gladly did the old 
man receive him. Here in the vicinity of the 
capital, upon an estate which was now a royal 
domain, and disguised as he was, for still greater 


THE BAILIFF. 


105 


security, he thought no one would suppose that 
he would take up his residence under the im- 
mediate eye of the enemy who was in pursuit 
of him. Moreover, he was here in the most i 
favorable place for receiving intelligence from 
those dear ones he had lost. Schrader and 
Geigenfritz, who were both working for and 
with him, were the only ones who knew of his 
abode. 

He had received no intelligence from them 
for a week ; and he was now waiting with pain- 
ful anxiety for more. They knew that they 
might find him near the pavilion every day 
about noon. He was thus awaiting them to- 
day. 

He had been walking up and down but a 
short time, before he perceived the well-known 
figure of Geigenfritz. The brown man wound 
his way laboriously through the thick bushes ; 
but still so carefully and noiselessly that the 
Count, even when close by him, could not hear, 
but only see him. Geigenfritz had also per- 
ceived the Count, and motioned him to go up to 
the pavilion. 

Thither they both took their way. They 
mounted the steps to the pavilion each by a dif- 
ferent flight of stairs. The structure was built 
upon high ground, and had a spacious chamber 
above. To this two doors gave access, one 
from each of the two flights of stairs. The 
openings at the sides were furnished with shut- 
ters. These 'were so much broken, and had so 
many holes and cracks, that sufficient light found 
its way through. The interior of this airy, for- 
eign-looking building w y as as ruinous as its ex- 
terior. The boards of the floor were loose, and 
through the wide cracks one could look into the 
space below, which had formerly served as a 
store-room for garden-tools. 

As soon as he had entered the chamber, Gei- 
genfritz carefully closed the two doors. 

“What do you bring?” asked the Count. 

“ Good news, Herr Edward.” 

“ Let me hear it.” 

“ But you must be patient, and let me tell it 
properly and in order. You know I’m an old 
man, that one mustn’t put out of his track, un- 
less he wants to confuse him.” 

“ No preface, I beg you.” 

“ There you are, impatient already. Hark j 
you : you know how I placed little Anna in the 
fortress.” 

“ I know.” 

“You know, too, that little Anna had been 
in the fortress for several weeks, and we could 
find out nothing further.” 

“I know that. Go on.” 

“ A few days ago the little one at last made 
a discovery. I’ve been in possession of it for 
four days.” 

“ And you are here only to-day !” 

u Very natural. I was close by three days 
ago ; but then I had the honor to be followed, 
just as you have been followed — very probably 
as the accomplice of Master Edward Bushby, 
of blessed memory — and a number of gendarmes 


were upon my somewhat broad and long tracks. 
So I couldn’t come to you till to-day.” 

“Go on with your tidings.” 

“A little bit of interesting news to begin with. 
Perhaps you don’t know that a reward of three 
hundred louis d'ors is offered, not exactly for 
your head, but for your person.” 

“ I can very well imagine it. But come to 
the matter in hand.” 

“ The matter in hand — about the reward, I 
mean — is, for the matter of that, made known 
to trusty policemen only. They think they have 
been very careful. I got wind of it by accident. 
I’ve just come from the capital. But of that, 
more by-and-by.” 

“ I beg you,” said the Count, impatiently, 
“to come to the point at last.” 

“ I'm just there now. Only hark you. Those 
we are looking for are in the fortress.” 

“Who? All? Amelia, too?” the Count 
burst forth. 

“ Patience, I beg you. The child has seen 
and spoken with two of them : Horberg and 
Yorhdff. But these are not so much to you. 
One she has spoken with, but has not seen : 
your father.” 

“My father? She has spoken with him 
He is there ? In the fortress ? He, then, is 
alive ?” 

“ Be quiet, be quiet. Pie is alive ; he is 
there; she has spoken with him.” 

“ What is he doing ? 

“ He is wanting to get out.” 

“ And Amelia ?” 

“ I am sorry,” said the adventurer, in a sud- 
denly altered tone — a tone which expressed sin- 
cere and hearty sympathy : “I am sorry that I 
can not give you the least tidings of the Princess. 
You must contain yourself and be patient.” 

The young man, with his hands clasped over 
his face, paced up and down over the creaking 
rotten boards. The old man followed him with 
sympathizing looks. 

“ Go on,” said the Count, after a long pause. 
“ Tell me about my father.” 

“ It grieves me, sir, that I can report but 
little of him. The girl could barely ask his 
name through the door of his prison, and inform 
him that you were alive, and striving for his 
liberation. But I have other news, Herr Ed- 
ward ; news from the capital, which will interest 
you.” 

The young man listened, notwithstanding the 
deep grief which rested upon his spirit. 

The other informed him — soon regaining his 
good spirits : “ I have never, in all my life, 
thought much of the French; and when I was 
a young man, I used to be vexed at the fashions 
that came from Paris. You will also agree with 
me, Plerr Edward — for as a learned gentleman 
you know it better than I do — that the French 
have heretofore done deuced little good here in 
Germany. But this Paris revolution isn’t such 
a bad thing for Germany. You should see how 
the people in all the German districts are all 
alive since they have heard of this insurrection 


ANNA HAMMER. 


106 


in Paris, and of the expulsion of the King. They 
talk every where about the rights of the people, 
about liberty, about the thrones of tyrants, and 
such-like things. That pleased me vastly, and 
I have been stirring the fire. But I was best 
pleased of all, in the capital last night. Uneasi- 
ness every where in the streets; crowds rushing 
about and singing songs of liberty : others sing- 
ing pereats to the new Minister, Herr von Eilen- 
thal, and the gracious F rau von Horberg — 1 hough 
in a somewhat low voice ; the obligato will soon 
follow ; other groups standing quietly and look- 
ing on ; but the passers-by are only the more 
excited: in the midst of all, a shouting, yelling, 
and whistling mass of vagabonds. But the cause 
may gain somewhat. The occasion is a good 
one. And there will something be done, this 
very evening, Herr Edward.” 

“ This evening !” and the Count became 
more attentive. 

“ I was best pleased of all when I visited our 
old friends. They knew you well.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“I was with the two citizens whom, years 
ago, you protected against the insolence of some 
of the inferior officers. From them 1 learned 
that they had purposely endured and supported 
the doings of the mob ; and that the revolution 
was to break out this very evening.” 

“ The revolution.” 

“ That’s what the people call it. They have 
got every thing ready. The masses will col- 
lect about the castle this evening ; and there 
they will present a few humble requests to his 
Highness. Such, for example, as one for a Con- 
stitution, one for the dismissal of the Minister 
von Eilenthal, as well as for that of that second 
mother of the people, Frau von Horberg — and 
so on.” 

“To-day, do you say? this evening?” asked 
the Count, with greater eagerness. 

“ Yes, yes, this evening. But, hold a mo- 
ment. Who’s that there ?” 

The eyes of this singular personage had the 
habit of always roving about in every direction. 
Even when he, to all appearances, was taking 
notice only of what was passing directly before 
him, his eyes were examining other objects, far 
and near, now on this side, and now on that. 
So was he now, during this conversation with 
the Count Arnstein, perhaps involuntarily and 
without any design, perpetually walking up to 
this window and that, and while he was most 
earnestly speaking in the room, his keen eye 
was peering most eagerly through the openings 
and cracks, out into the thicket, in almost every 
direction. 

He had uttered those words in a tone of sur- 
prise which he seldom made use of. Coolly, 
and without in the least changing his position 
or look, he added : 

“ Herr Edward, which way do you usually 
take when you come to the pavilion ?” 

“ The same by which I now came.” 

“ That from the avenue, over the plank that 
crosses the brook?” 


“ The same.” 

“ And by what way do you return ?” 

“ By the same. But why do you ask?” 

“Why? Just come here; but carefully, 
too close to the window, so that you may not h 
seen from without. There, look toward th ■ 
plank, there, to the right, down in the bushes.’ ’ 

“I see nothing.” 

“ Look sharp : right by the other side of tv > 
brook ; close by the plank.” 

“ I see nothing. The thicket is very closr 
there.” 

“ Close and dark : right. But don’t you sea 
something sparkle in the dark thicket there?” 

“1 see nothing but the bushes.” 

“Your eyes are good, 1 know very well ; but 
mine, though at least three times as old as yours, 
are still better, I think. There in the thicket, 
is a fellow lying hid, in a green coat with yel- 
low buttons ; and unless I am mistaken, with a 
gun.” 

“ Can you make that out?” 

“ A few moments ago more clearly than just 
now. I am sorry my eyes were too late to see 
the man coming ; but the motion of the bushes, 
probably just after he came, caught my eye. 
Meanwhile, what do you think about the matter. 
Herr Edward ?” 

“ Why should I puzzle my head about it ? 
It is some inquisitive fellow, who wants to 
watch me because I come here every day at 
this hour ; perhaps one of the people about the 
Bailiff’s house.” 

“ Quite right. But did it never occur to you, 
that there’s a reward of three hundred yellow 
louis (V ors set upon you, which certain person- 
ages would be very glad to earn ?” 

“ The police could apprehend me in the 
house, far more easily and surely than here. 
And besides, what would be the use of a lying 
wait in secret.” 

“ Sir, you know that I have presentiments 
sometimes. And now — ” 

“And now?” said Arnstein, with a laugh. 

Geigenfritz made no further answer. He 
looked down upon the broken floor of the room, 
kneeled down upon one knee, removed a board 
to one side, peeped through the opening into the 
space below, and then said, as he arose again : 

“ That’ll do. The height isn’t much; there 
is a hole in the cellar through which one can 
crawl. Wait here a moment, I’ll be back with 
you directly ; but do you keep still, so that they 
shan't see you from without.” 

“ What are you going to do?” 

“ I must see what that fellow out there 
wants.” 

“ Don’t be a fool.” 

“ Leave me alone for that.” 

He hastily enlarged the opening he had made 
by removing the boards, and in an instant slipped 
through ; his height stood him in play then; the 
leap which it was necessary for him to take, in 
order to reach the ground in the space below, 
amounted to but a few feet. This was made 
so lightly that the Count did not hear it, though 


THE BAILIFF. 


107 


ho was immediately above him. Having reach- 
ed the ground, he crept up to a tolerably large 
hole in the wooden wall, and looked through, 
peering into the wood in every direction. No 
suspicious object met his eye. From the thicket 
by the bridge, and consequently from the ob- 
servation of the person who was concealed there, 
he was hidden by a mass of thick tall grass, 
which grew close up to the hole. Through this 
he crept; and having gained the open air, he 
raised himself up just high enough to get the 
direction of the bridge, and then he crept on 
— through the grass, through the bushes, by the 
path, then again through grass and bushes nim- 
bly and silently, like a great brown monster, 
accustomed only to creeping and lying in wait — 
until he reached the brook. He had not taken 
exactly the direction of the bridge, but came 
upon the stream at a distance of some five-and- 
twenty or thirty paces from the bridge. Here 
he was concealed by the high growth of reeds. 
He crept along the brook a few paces until he 
found a narrow place, made almost dry by the 
heat of summer. He was on the other side by 
a single bound. Here he crept along again, 
slowly, gently, almost inaudibly, till he was 
close behind the thicket in which was hidden 
the man who fancied himself pursuer, but who 
was in fact the pursued. 

Here Geigenfritz paused, and keenly examin- 
ed every thing about him. His eyes had not 
deceived him. A man actually lay hidden in 
the thicket, dressed in a green Jager’s livery, 
with yellow buttons, a rifle under his arm, 
with his eyes fixed upon the pavilion. The fel- 
low had not perceived the approach of Geigen- 
fritz, for he lay quietly there, without changing 
the direction of his eyes. 

Geigenfritz formed his plans at once. The 
thicket in which the Jager was hidden was 
open only on one side, that towards the bridge, 
so that the concealed person could, without any 
obstruction seize upon any one who approached 
from the bridge. This side must be gained, 
without being perceived by the Jager. Before 
Geigenfritz betook himself thither, he drew from 
the great pocket of his brown jacket a long cord 
wound up in many coils. This he arranged 
and laid smoothly, and then crept up a few steps 
toward the opening in the thicket. All at 
once, he sprang upright, lifting himself up to an 
almost gigantic height, and at the same instant 
threw himself with all his bulk upon the Jager, 
around whose body he wound his cord. 

“ Help ! Help !” the Jager attempted to cry. 
But the sounds only half escaped from his 
mouth which was in a moment stopped by Gei- 
genfritz. 

“ And so, comrade, you’ve got assistance near 
by?” asked Geigenfritz, after ho had tied his 
captive’s hands behind his back, and with an- 
other cord, which he produced with equal speed, 
had tied the legs of the Jager, and thus at once 
rendered him altogether powerless. 

He then took up the rifle of the Jager, and 
said to him, coolly and quietly : 


“ If you bother me, comrade, I’ll crack your 
brain-pan with the butt.” 

Cocking the gun, he took his station, near 
the bridge, on the watch. Without any great 
exertion of his acuteness he had inferred from 
the Jager’s cry for help, that he was not alone. 
He was just as little in doubt that ihey were in 
pursuit of a single prey, who he suspected 
must be the Count. Under the circumstances, 
it was clear to him also, that nothing could be 
more dangerous than to fly. Any step might 
throw him directly into the hands of a concealed 
pursuer ; so that he must remain where he was 
till the Jager’s comrade should come to his as- 
sistance. 

These cogitations had barely passed through 
his mind, and his thoughts were certainly none 
of the slowest, when some one came running 
through the thicket from the oposite side of the 
pavilion. It was another Jager, in a livery 
similar to that of the one whom he had over- 
powered. He ran directly up to the bridge. 

Geigenfritz had anticipated this ; and his plan 
was already formed. Concealed in the bushes, 
he could hardly be discovered by the Jager, 
particularly in his rapid course, until after the 
latter had crossed the bridge. The bushes came 
close to the bridge ; and the moment that the 
Jager was in the act of stepping over, he would 
attack him. If the fellow saw T him before, the 
threat of his rifle, and if need were, the use of 
it, should do his business. And so with the 
musket on his arm, Geigenfritz took his post, 
on the watch. 

But at this point it turned out differently from 
what he had anticipated. 

The Jager ran up to the bridge without stop- 
ping ; but just as he was in the act of putting 
his foot upon it, he heard a sound behind him ; 
he stopped, and turned around. From the pa- 
vilion stairs the Count Arnstein was running 
directly to the bridge. He had perceived the 
second Jager, and hastened to the assistance of 
Geigenfritz, whom he supposed to be engaged 
! in a contest with more than one opponent. 

The plan of the Jager also seemed to be form- 
ed, as soon as he perceived the Count. He 
cocked his musket, and stood still. 

When the Count had come up within ten 
paces of him, the Jager cried, “Stop, or I’ll 
fire !” crying out at the same moment evidently 
to his comrade, “ Hallo, here !” 

The Count stopped short in surprise. It was, 
in truth, a critical position. A single step for- 
ward, and the fellow might send a bullet through 
his head. He looked doubtfully around. There 
was no object near, behind which he might take 
shelter. Geigenfritz, for whom he was perhaps 
looking, was nowhere to be seen. He directed 
his glance toward the Jager. Should he spring 
upon him ? should he rush upon the shot ? 
should he run the risk that the bullet would 
miss him, or would not pierce his skull? 

It had indeed turned out differently from what 
Geigenfritz calculated ; but a change of circum- 
stances seldom found him at a loss. On the eon- 


108 


ANNA HAMMER. 


trary, he was prompt to avail himself of them. 
The moment the Jager had turned away from 
the direction in which he was, and had aimed 
his piece at the Count, Geigenfritz flung down 
his own rifle, and in one bound was upon the 
bridge, and in another was by the side of the 
Jager. One blow from his heavy fist upon the 
neck of the Jager, tumbled him to the ground 
before he had any suspicion of the danger that 
threatened him from behind. 

“ Now be perfectly quiet, my dear fellow,” 
said Geigenfritz, in a friendly tone to the Jager, 
who was lying upon the ground ; and at the 
same time he took the rifle from his hand and 
flung it in the grass. 

The prostrate Jager put the best face he could 
on this joking. What else could he do? That 
it was vain to offer any resistance to the gigan* 
tic power of the brown man, he was fully aware 
from the weight of the hand that held him down. 
And besides, the Count was also there. 

The Count had by this time come up. 

“ What shall w T e do with the fellow ?” asked 
Geigenfritz. “The other lies over there with 
his mouth stopped,” he added, pointing to the 
thicket, beyond the bridge. 

“ I should think the best thing would be to 
bind this fellow, too,” answered the Count, “and 
then for us to be off, but to leave a note at the 
chateau, telling them of the fate of these two 
fellows, so that they may come to no harm 
here.” 

“ It will be time enough to attend to the lat- 
ter part of the business by-and-by,” replied Gei- 
genfritz, as he proceeded with the utmost com- 
posure to tie together the arms and legs of the 
Jager, whom he then addressed as follows : 

“ Now, comrade, I’m going to be your father 
confessor — But in the first place, sir,” he added, 
turning to the Count, “ just take care of that 
rifle there, and that other one lying in the bush- 
es yonder. One must look out for every acci- 
dent.” 

The Count brought the two pieces. One he 
kept himself, the other he laid down by the side 
of Geigenfritz, so that he could lay his hand 
upon it in an instant. 

“ Now, comrade, how many of you rascals 
are lying here on the watch ?” 

The Jager made no reply. 

“ Oh, perhaps that word ‘ rascal’ don’t meet 
your approbation. How many assistants, then, 
have you in your noble hunting expedition to- 
day?” 

The Jager maintained an obstinate silence. 

“ Comrade, don’t take upon yourself the thank- 
less part of a martyr. Look ye, friend ; I sus- 
pect that it touches the life of that gentleman 
there, and very likely mine too; and I think our 
two lives are worth more than yours. You had 
better make up your mind that I am not joking.” 

He drew out, as he spoke, a long knife. The 
look of the Jager grew less bold. The arguments 
of the man in whose power he lay, might per- 
haps have somewhat enlightened him. He could 
reckon upon no assistance, for he had just heard 


J that his comrade lay yonder bound and gag- 
ged. 

“ What do you want of me ?” 

“ How many are there of you here ?” 

“ My comrade and I ?” 

“ Nobody else ? — I’ll run you through as sure 
as a third makes his appearance.” 

“ Nobody else.” 

“ What do you want here?” 

The man thought for a moment, and then said : 

“That gentleman there,” pointing to the 
Count. 

“I thought so. And what was to be done 
with him?” 

“ The Herr Actuary ordered us to apprehend 
him.” 

“ And then what ?” 

“ To deliver him over to the Herr Actuary.” 

“ And what then ?” 

“ He was to be taken in a carriage to the 
capital.” 

“ Oho ! We can get there without you and 
your carriage. Look out sharper next time. 
Now good-day to you,” said Geigenfritz rising 
from his knees, for he had been kneeling by 
the side of the Jiiger. 

“Let us go,” said he to the Count. “It’s 
better in all cases to make sure,” he added as 
he took up both rifles, and flung them into the 
water. 

They departed. Geigenfritz strode on with 
his long legs; the Count could hardly keep up 
with him. He directed his steps along the 
linden-alley, but in a direction opposite to the 
chateau. 

“Where are you leading me?” asked the 
Count. 

“ Perhaps you want to go back to the chateau, 
so as to get caught by another rascal,” he said, 
in a tone which betrayed some ill-humor. 

“ I would like to return to the chateau, but 
for quite another purpose,” replied the Count : 
“ to take leave of the noble castellan.” 

“Sir,” went on Geigenfritz angrily, “there’s 
nothing right with you to-day. What the devil 
brought you to-day right under the muzzle of 
that rascal’s gun ?” 

“ Perhaps I ought to have left you alone in 
danger — in your contest with two.” 

“ Herr Edward, in future don’t you trouble 
yourself about me, unless you want me once for 
all to keep my hands out of your affairs.” 

The more gravely Geigenfritz spoke, the more 
was the Count compelled to laugh. 

“ Let well enough be, old fellow. Don’t vex 
yourself any more. Vexation seems to have 
dulled your senses, otherwise I shouldn’t be the 
first to see our friend Schrader coming there.” 

“ That’s what one gets of it,” muttered 
Geigenfritz. 

Schrader was in fact turning into the avenue 
in the direction of the Chinese pavilion. They 
called out to him, and went up to him. 

“ I began to be afraid,” said Schrader to the 
Count, “ that I shouldn’t hit upon you. There’s 
a great commotion in your village. The people 


THE BAILIFF. 


109 


are thronging in a mass to the chateau. It 
came into my mind that you might be in some 
way connected with it. But my apprehensions, 
as I see, were not called for. You must away 
with me. I bring decisive intelligence.” 

“ Of what kind ?” 

“ That those of whom we are in search are 
alive, your father also ; and that all three 
of them are confined in the fortress, our friend 
Geigenfritz has already told you.” 

“ 1 have learned that from him. And my 
wife — ” 

“We have, I am sorry to say, no tidings of 
her as yet. But I do not despair of learning 
something of her fate very soon. I have just 
come from the fortress ; every thing is ready 
there for a coup de main.” 

“For the liberation of the prisoners?” 

“ For their liberation — and to-morrow. Little 
Anna Hammer — as bold as she is cunning — at 
the instigation of that rascal there,” pointing to 
Geigenfritz, “ managed to get possession of a 
wax impression of the key to the outer gates of 
the fortress. She gave it to me. A false key 
was then to be made, which will be ready to-day. 
To-morrow is the Commandant’s birth-day: it 
is to be celebrated in the fortress ; and old 
soldiers are accustomed to drink like, like — old 
soldiers. To-morrow evening we make an at- 
tack. The garrison, at this moment, consists of 
barely three hundred men, among whom are the 
sick and invalided. The false key will open the 
gate for us. By the aid of our friends, I have 
collected five hundred determined men, all armed. 
Surprised by these the feeble garrison — drunk 
and sleepy too — can not make a long resistance. 
The prisoners will soon be ours.” 

The Count had listened thoughtfully. 

“I am sorry,” he replied, when Schrader had 
finished speaking, “that, for my own part, I 
can not enter into your plan.” 

“I have come to conduct you. You are ex- 
pected.” 

“ I must set myself most decidedly against 
it.” 

“ Against the liberation of your father ! Real- 
ly I do not understand you.” 

“ Your plan appears to me to be very ill-con- 
trived. To attack a fortress with an irregular 
body of men, unaccustomed to fighting, is always 
hazardous. The slightest circumstance which 
has not been calculated upon, may frustrate it ; 
and it seems to me that there are many circum- 
stances upon which you have not calculated.” 

“ I think not. We know the locality per- 
fectly, and have calculated for every thing. I 
have not thought it necessary to give you more 
than the most general outlines.” 

“ Apart from this — but more especially in con- 
nection with the doubtful chance of success — I 
should be unwilling that hundreds should be 
mined thereby. The liberation of the poor pris- 
oners must be effected in some other way than by 
n. doubtful, and at all events a bloody contest.” 

“According to our plans, very little blood 
will flow in the surprise.” 


“ It is still the same. Should but a singl« 
human life be sacrificed, I should never forgive 
myself.” 

“ Friend, don’t be sentimental. No victory is 
without a fight : and no fight without bloodshed. 
According to your ideas, an oppressed people 
must remain slaves forever.” 

“ We will not dispute about that at present. 

I will only ask you to reflect upon the endless 
persecutions of the men who lend us their aid. 
We shall save ourselves in foreign countries : 
they will remain.” 

“ This scrupulousness does you honor ; but it 
is unnecessary. My people are mainly smug- 
glers, for the admirable tariff system of the Ger- 
man governments, has multiplied them upon the 
frontiers. They spring up in the night from the 
holes and forests, in which they disappear in the 
morning, and leave no traces behind.” 

“ And then think on poor Anna Hammer. 
How could I expose that devoted, self-sacrific- 
ing child to the danger in which your plan must 
leave her. 1 adjure you, dear Schrader, to desist 
from your unfortunate project.” 

“ It is too late. Every thing is prepared. The 
prisoners too.” 

“ And they have consented ?” 

“ So the girl says.” 

“ Then they don’t know the danger — the real 
state of the case. That noble child has deceived 
them. Once more I adjure you to abandon your 
plan.” 

“ It is too late, my dear Arnstein.” 

“ Postpone it, at least, for a single day.” 

“ What can one day do?” 

“ Much ! I have another plan. A more sure 
one, I hope ; at all events a bloodless one. The 
trial of it must be delayed till to-morrow.” 

“ Can you impart to me your plan.” 

“I grieve that I can not.” 

“ Count Arnstein, have I deserved your sus- 
picion ?” 

“ My honor forbids me to impart it to you. 
Trust in me.” 

“ I do trust in you. Do our plans cross each 
other? Would the execution of mine, prevent 
the success of yours ?” 

“ The one does not stand in the way of the 
other.” 

“Then mine can not be abandoned. If the 
one fails the other may succeed. Both will not 
fail. I shall return. Whither do you go?” 

“ To the capital.” 

“ To the capital !” 

“ There is a revolution there to-day,” inter- 
posed Geigenfritz, as if by way of explanation. 

“ You will not surely take any part in that?” 

“ Tell us more plainly what you mean bv 
that question.” 

“ The time for German revolutions, or rather 
for a German revolution, has not yet come. 
Even for France, I am afraid the Three Day? 
of July have arrived too early. Intrigue ha* 
conquered. In the Duke of Orleans another 
person, a somewhat different form, but no differ- 
ent system ofgoverament, will mount the throne 


110 


ANNA HAMMER. 


In Germany the prospect for a revolution is still 
less consolatory ; at present it. is utterly impos- 
sible. We can expect nothing but the street- 
riots, the street-brawls of the street population. 
So it is also in our own capital. No man who 
can and will reserve himself for his country and 
for freedom, should take part in these cmeutcs. 
This is the purport of my question.” 

“You need not fear for me in this respect. 

I will not throw myself into any purposeless 
street-riot. My project proceeds upon its own 
separate course. If 1 make use of the plank 
which is already placed there, to help myself 
over the water, it will seem only natural, even 
from your own point of view.” 

“ I understand that perfectly.” 

“ Then, farewell !” 

“ Where shall we meet again ?” 

The Count reflected. 

“ In what direction will you go if your plan 
succeeds ?” he asked. 

“ To Paris.” 

“ Let us meet then to-morrow at the fortress, 
or in Paris in a week. If your plan miscarries, 
every thing remains as before, and I will come 
to you. One thing more : Order relays of post- 
horses for me to-morrow, in your own name, at 
the stations between here and Paris.” 

“ It shall be done.” 

“ Where will you go, Geigenfritz ?” 

“ Sir,” answered the long man, who for some 
minutes had been more attentive than before, 
and was pricking up his ears as though listening 
to something at a distance ; “that depends upon 
what is going on at the chateau down there.” 

Although the three speakers, during this con- 
versation, had been going further and further 
from the chateau, they had heard a noise more 
and more plainly, which came from the direc- 
tion of the chateau. It was a confused mixture 
of cries and shouts, and through it all, a sound 
as though weapons were clashing together. 

“ I rather think,” continued Geigenfritz, after 
he had stood still a few seconds in order to hear 
the better, “ that there is something for me to 
do there, Herr Schrader; order your relays of 
horses for two. Herr Edward, please God, I 
will be with you at the capital this evening.” 

With these words, Geigenfritz left the other 
two, who, in like manner, soon separated. Gei- 
genfritz hastened with long steps and great 
leaps, through paths and avenues, over bushes 
and weeds, toward the chateau, by the most 
direct way. 

Here was a great commotion among the coun- 
try-people. Some four or five hundred men 
were gathered in the court-yard — the whole 
community, old and young, masters and serv- 
ants. The men were armed with rifles, mus- 
kets, sabres, pikes, sickles, and axes ; the wo- 
men and children stood in the back-ground. 

The chateau was beleaguered. The doors 
were shut, the window-shutters closed, and the 
flight of steps before the residence of the Bailiff 
was occupied by twenty dragoons. Between 
the dragoons and the country-people, just at the 


moment, was an empty space. In this spac® 
were standing the sergeant in command and th® 
spokesmen of the peasants. They seemed to 
be speaking to the sergeant ; but the shouting 
of the by-standers drowned their words. 

“ Down with the soldiers !” — “ Pull them 
from their horses !” — “ Storm the house !” 
resounded from every side. 

“ We will have our rights !” — “ Away with 
the bloodsucker!” — “Drive out the whole 
office !” screamed other voices ; while sabres, 
and axes, and pikes were clashed together in a 
threatening manner. 

The spokesmen in the midst admonished them 
to be peaceable and orderly. But this only 
availed for a moment. 

“ Set fire to it !” cried other voices. “ Burn 
down the whole nest, and the rats in it !” 

“ You see,” said one of the spokesmen to th® 
sergeant, “ that the impatience increases. The 
more impatient the people grow, the more un- 
controllable they become. Do not refuse us en- 
trance any longer. Only we four will go in to 
the Bailiff, to lay before him our reasonable 
representations. At the present moment we 
can answer for order and moderation. In a 
few moments we shall no longer be able to do 
so. You and your men will be the first upon 
whom their vengeance will be wreaked.” 

“ The soldier must expect that, upon such a 
post,” said the sergeant. 

“But then the building and its occupants cart 
no longer be saved. You must confess that you 
will destroy here, instead of protecting, if you 
delay longer.” 

A subordinate officer here rode up to th® 
sergeant, and spoke to him in a low tone. Th® 
second sub-officer of the command was sum- 
moned, and the three seemed to be holding a 
council of war. 

“ The deputation can pass,” said the sergeant, 
after a brief space for reflection. 

The deputation were admitted into the cha- 
teau. One of them, from the steps, admonished 
the people to be quiet till they returned. A 
momentary silence ensued. 

In about ten minutes the deputation came 
back, some with perplexed countenances, some 
laughing. 

“ The whole brood has flown away,” said 
one of them ; “ they have all made off with 
themselves by the back-door : the Bailiff, the 
Actuary, the beadle, the constables, and all.” 

“ Into the office ! Burn the papers ! the reg- 
ister, the tax-books, the lying protocols !” 

“ No violence !” exclaimed the orator, from 
the stairs. “ Don’t let it be said of us that we 
acted like robbers and incendiaries. We want 
onlv our rights.” 

The crowd stood hesitating and perplexed. 

“ It goes all over the country, just as it does 
here,” said Geigenfritz, to some respectable- 
looking peasants, near whom he had posted him- 
self. “ Every where the officials oppress th® 
people.” 

“ And that must no longer bo borne. The 


Ill 


A REVOLUTION, OR NOT? 


French have got their liberty ; and we’ll have 
our liberty and our rights, too.” 

u The country must rise,” continued Geigen- 
fritz. “ There was a rising in the capital last 
night — I came from there ; to-day I met armed 
reinforcements coming from all quarters. The 
Ministers must be obliged no longer to oppress 
the people ; or they must be driven away. The 
whole country must march upon the capital ; 
there is the seat of the evil.” 

u The man is right. The Ministers must be 
dismissed ; they are the cause of all — these 
evil advisers of the monarch.” 

“ To the capital ! to the capital !” cried 
voices more loudly. 

“ The alarm-bells must be rung from village 
to village, in every parish,” said Geigenfritz. 
“ Every body must go.” 

“ To the belfry !” shouted the voices. “Ring 
the alarm-bell !” 

“ Send messengers to all the neighborhood !” 
cried others. 

“ Away, away to the capital !” 

The soldiers were soon alone in the broad 
court. There was nothing more for them to 
do. The sergeant gave the word of command: 

“ Forward ! march !” 

He had kept possession of the field of battle. 
Geigenfritz watched them all passing by — peas- 
ants and soldiers, women and children. 

“ That’s a reinforcement!” he said; and then 
added : “ Pooh ! the people are like children, 
or like butter, or what you will, soft and lead- 
able, and kneadable, and good-natured to a 
fault. And they want to make a revolution !” 
Here he drew in his upper lip contemptuously. 
“But who will be hard-hearted any way?” 
he added, after a pause, with a sort of ironical 
expression. 

He turned his steps to the park, in the direc- 
tion of the Chinese pavilion. 

“ Pack of blockheads !” muttered he, as he 
went ; “ and yet too good to be the sacrifice to 
such a tumult as this.” 

He cut the cords w 7 hich bound the first of 
the two Jagers, saying, “ Do you be a Good 
Samaritan to your comrade there, as I have 
been to you and disappeared, before the man 
could bethink himself what had happened. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A REVOLUTION, OR NOT? 

Treefrog, the First Chamberlain of the 
reigning monarch, was pensioned chamberlain 
of his former Majesty of blessed memory. By 
the express commands of his late master he re- 
tained his full salary by way of pension, and his 
official residence in the castle. Further than 
this, there was nothing of his former greatness 
now remaining to him. With the loss of his 
employment, he had lost his influence. 

,'t was evening. He was sitting in his well- 
iirhte 1 chamber, furnished with a magnificence 


hardly less than princely. Why should his apart- 
ment be furnished with less than princely splen- 
dor? Had he not ruled the land more than did 
the reigning monarch ? 

a a 

Habitudes of almost half a century could not 
at once be laid aside. Treefrog was sitting in 
his apartment in full dress, as in former days he 
had sat in his master’s ante-chamber. He sat 
there in his black dress-coat, silk breeches, silk 
stockings, white neckcloth and white vest. Nor 
were the little buckles on his shoes and the 
orders on his breast wanting. 

But the old dignity, the old manner was gone. 
His gray head fell wearily upon his breast, and 
his eyes had a troubled expression. He was 
alone in his splendid apartment. It was quite 
still there, except that the striking, sometimes 
harmonious and sometimes otherwise, of various 
timepieces might be heard — which, costly pres- 
ents and witnesses of former homage, hung and 
stood in every direction about the room. 

From the distance, through the closed win- 
dows, pierced the sounds — sometimes louder, 
sometimes fainter, of human voices, sometimes 
single, sometimes combined. They appeared to 
come from the street ; but they could not be 
accurately distinguished, for the -apartment of 
the Chamberlain lay upon an inner court of the 
castle. 

A low and gentle knock was heard at the door, 
which w r as opened before the Chamberlain had 
time to say, Come in. 

Another old man entered — likewise a fallen 
great man, since he was no longer a servant of 
a master — Prince Brodi. 

“ Good evening, old comrade.” 

“ Good evening your Highness. I had already 
given up the hope of seeing you to-day. You 
come late.” 

“ Do you think it so dangerous here in the 
castle ?” 

“I fear the people as little yourself.” 

“ Ay, ay, my friend, who told you I did not 
fear the people ? I fear the people only ; the 
people alone ; the people ever and always.” 

“ You’re jesting again.” 

“ God keep me from such jesting.” 

“ Do you really believe that this crying and 
singing and shouting down there in the street, 
can overthrow the throne up here in the castle?” 

“ Perhaps not to-day, nor to-morrow, nor in 
a week, nor in two months ; but whether it will 
in ten years, or no, that question I would not 
answer so unconditionally in the negative. Just 
recall to memory your experience of this court. 
Is it to-day what it was fifty years ago?” 

“ Alas, it is quite a different thing.” 

“‘Alas!’ — Is it then become better or 
worse ?” 

“ Worse, your Highness, much worse, and it 
grows worse every day. I dare not tell you the 
heathenish way the household goes on. The 
worst persons rule, from the Frau von Horberg 
down to the Chamberlain. The deserving men, 
who have grown gray in service, have been dis- 
missed, one after another. New faces — and 


112 


ANNA HAMMER. 


villainous faces too — follow each other, from all 
the ends of the earth. So much money has 
already been expended in the brief time of this 
new government, that one might well suppose 
there would not be a single kreutzer left in the 
coffers.” 

“ Look you, the -world will say that you and 
f have fallen into second childhood, and are, 
moreover, a couple of displaced courtiers; that 
every thing would look black to us, even if it 
were white — ” 

“ All the world say so, your Highness ; I have 
not heard a single other voice.” 

“Oh! all the world, you suppose.” 

“Every body: I see a great many people.” 

“ Well, old fellow, if all the world say so, if 
the people perceive this bad government, if the 
government, of the throne actually stands upon 
a basis so evil, how can you suppose that it will 
not some time or other be shaken, and overthrown 
some fair night.” 

“ Thrones do not fall so easily, your Highness. 
They are under the protection of a higher 
power.” 

“ Oh, yes. 4 By the grace of God !’ You 
have profited, I see, by the lessons of our late 
sovereign, of blessed memory. He had a be- 
lieving spirit. It is a fine phrase : ‘ By the 

grace of God.’ but only so long as the world 
believes it. The belief of Princes in it, alone, 
amounts to nothing.” 

The old Chamberlain laughed, for the first 
time. “I should suppose,” said he, “that the 
people must believe in it, as long as Princes 
wish to have them. They have every thing to 
make that faith a living one : Soldiers, police, 
courts of justice, and so forth.” 

“ Very true, my worthy friend, and our princes 
have used these aids to a saving belief with great 
dexterity and power ; but we have a proverb, 
vulgar, but unfortunately a true one — ‘ The 
pitcher went to the well so often that it broke at 
last/ — Ho you understand that?” 

“ By the pitcher do you mean these aids to 
faith, as you call them ?” 

“ You’ve hit it.” 

“ Then who is to break this pitcher?” 

“ Who breaks the pitchers that go to the 
wells ? Sometimes it’s age ; sometimes it’s the 
one who carries the pitcher; sometimes — there 
are instances of this — it’s the water itself.” 

“ But the Princes will not set their armies and 
officials upon themselves.” 

“ Who knows ?” 

“You spoke of age also. I do not under- 
stand that. If by the water you understand the 
people, you must grant to me, who have had 
more to do with water and pitchers than you 
have, that the innocent water has never done 
any harm to pitchers.” 

“ Then take all three factors of the breakage 
together. Pitchers do now and then break in 
this world. If I had the faculty of speaking 
words of deep wisdom, like Colonel Reuter, I 
would say, ‘ That’s just what thev are made 
for.’ ” 


“ For my part, just keep away from me with 
your people. These blackguards will never 
cause the throne to totter.” 

“ Be not so confident, old friend. Those who 
can make a throne and maintain it, can also, 
some time or other break it in pieces.” 

“ What do you mean by that?” 

The old Chamberlain did not comprehend him. 

“ You must know*,” asked the Prince, “ who 
made the throne, don’t you?” 

“ Who should make it? The ruler sits upon 
the throne in accordance with the law of tdna 
land.” 

“ Upon the throne that has been made ready 
for him. But who made it ready for him ?” 

“ Why, the law of the land ?” 

“ Spoken like a German professor of juris- 
prudence — he could not have spoken more sapi- 
ently. But who made the law' of the land ?” 

“ Why, I suppose the original ruler, who 
formed the State.” 

“ Admirably answered again. But you can’t 
knead bread without dough. How then could a 
prince, without something further, knead a State 
together ?” 

“ He had his subjects.” 

“ Subjects ! Right ! Subjects make the State. 
It is they wdio make the people, and thus also 
the throne. And if, some fair day they should 
cease to be subjects, it might happen that th< 
throne w’ould stand upon a somewhat tottering 
foundation. Yet I do not suppose you under- 
stand that ?” 

A quick, loud step was loudly heard in the 
corridor before the apartment of the Chamber- 
lain. It paused before the door, which, a mo- 
ment after, without any previous announcement 
from the visitor, was flung open. 

The little Chamberlain, as pensioned fune- 
tionary, doubly sensitive respecting his dignity, 
sprang up angrily. The w'ords, “ Impudent 
fellow’!” w’ere upon his lips. He suppressed 
them, however, when he recognized the on© 
who entered ; but he cast a by no means friendly 
look upon him. It was the adjutant of the 
monarch. 

Without any further words, the officer ad- 
vanced to Prince Brodi, saying : 

“ I was looking for your Highness.” 

“Ah, Herr von Wangenheim,” replied the 
Prince ; “ You are a courtier as fortunate as 
you are admirable.” 

“ If the second part of this compliment does 
not hit the mark closer than the first, I can not 
be very grateful to your Highness for the 
w’hole.” 

“ Do you not call it fortunate to find me 
here?” 

“ Most certainly. I am very happy, especially 
as I have pressing orders.” 

“ Look you! This good fortune of yours is 
the simple consequence of your delicate, admira- 
ble feeling, that said to you, 4 You will find the 
tw’o banished friends together in this asylum.’ ” 

“ Your Highness is mistaken. I w'ent to your 
hotel before I came here.” 


113 


A REVOLUTION, OR NOT? 


u Ah, excuse me for the error. One grows 
old. Old age is stupid. It is a false saying, 
that youth excuses error. But you have not 
been fortunate in following my traces ? I am 
very sorry. You have not suffered any misfor- 
tune, I hope?” 

I was only in a little peril of my life. The 
masses of the people, who have hitherto been 
scattering about the streets, have been concen- 
trating for half an hour before the castle. All 
the entrances are taken possession of. The court 
is filled with the shouting, raging crowd. I 
could get into the streets only through a rear- 
gate, and was recognized at once. At first they 
only insulted me, then they threatened me; 
finally, some wished to seize, but others held 
them back. The contest which took place 
about this saved me.” 

“ Did they treat the Prince’s adjutant so ?” 

“ Do the canaille make any difference? But 
vengeance will be forthcoming. I hope the 
Prince will suffer us at once to pour the grape- 
shot into the mob, and drive them asunder.” 

“ Then you do not perceive any danger ?” 

Danger ! Pooh ! Danger from such a 
miserable mob scraped together.” 

“ But the people, they say, are armed to-day. 
As early as yesterday many bodies had provided 
themselves with weapons.” 

“ These masses, even though armed, will 
make no stand against our military.” 

“ I am glad to find your courage so good.” 

“ Will you have the kindness to speak further 
on this matter. I am ordered by the Prince to 
invite you to a conference to which his Highness 
has summoned all his generals and ministers in 
his cabinet. They are already assembled, and 
are only waiting for you.” 

“ You were to invite me to it?” 

“For this purpose I have been seeking for 
your Highness.” 

“ For me. Is there not some mistake ?” 

“ Your Highness will hardly suspect me of a 
mistake in so simple a matter. May I beg to be 
allowed to conduct you at once to his Majesty ?” 

“His Majesty has but to command. Friend 
Treefrog, adieu. Perhaps you’ll be in active 
service again. Wonderful times these. Don’t 
you see what the people can do?” 

He departed in company with the Adjutant. 
The broad stairs and long corridors conducted 
them to the cabinet of the Sovereign. 

The heads of the civil and military adminis- 
tration were gathered about the Prince. Among 
them were a few of the pensioned-off councilors 
of the deceased monarch. 

The low, gentle, whispering stillness proper 
to a royal saloon, reigned even in this time of 
peril ; though it might have been that this peril 
was hot universally acknowledged in the cabinet, 
at least not in its extent and nearness. The 
chief functionaries surrounded the Prince in re- 
spectful order. 

An old general was speaking. The good man 
was giving utterance to well-meant common- 
place phrases about the happiness of princes in 


faithful and obedient subjects, and the misery of 
the people when they w T ould not recognize that 
their own happiness consisted in the blind obe- 
dience of subjects. He was somewhat tiresome, 
and nobody paid any special attention to him ; 
every body seemed to be meditating what share 
he would contribute to the general consultation. 
The Prince himself looked on with an air which 
plainly showed that his thoughts were very dif- 
ferently employed than with the words of the 
i speaker. 

Prince Brodi, who with the Adjutant, had en- 
tered unperceived, had time during the speech 
j for consideration and observation. 

After his keen eye had run over those present, 
he said to himself : 

“ A bad sign ! No young men here ! Only 
old men in their stead ! One sees here only dry, 
withered forms, old, worn-out faces, and venera- 
ble gray heads. No youth ; no freshness ! Does 
life, as the times, then belong to the old ? He 
only for whom and for whose throne we must 
act, is young. And yet, how old ! How bent 
is his back; how worn-out his pale countenance; 
how aged and dead his nerves ! The dry hair 
[ on his temples can no longer hold its place ! 
And yet these make claims upon life ! They 
1 wish to give direction to their times ! They 
wish to govern ! Pshaw !” 

The old General had finished his speech. 
The Adjutant approached the Sovereign, to 
J announce the execution of the orders he had 
received, and the arrival of Prince Brodi. 

Prince Brodi followed him. The monarch 
extended his hand condescendingly to his old 
servant, who bowed over it and kissed it. 

“You are punctual, my old friend,” said the 
Sovereign. “ I thank you for it. My Council 
apprehend that there is danger ; and I was of 
the opinion that in the hour of danger I could 
not dispense with advice so often proved as 
yours.” 

“ I beg your Highness’s pardon,” interrupted 
a tall, meagre, haughty-looking man. He was 
the youngest of all the Councilors present, both 
in respect of age and of length of service. But 
the favor of the new ruler had quickly made 
President von Eilenthal First Minister. He 
broke in, almost interrupting the Sovereign, 
more quickly than, perhaps, court etiquette 
would -warrant. But, nevertheless, this seemed 
scarcely to be noticed. “ I beg your High- 
ness’s pardon, but I must, for my own part, be 
allowed most respectfully to remark, that I have 
not acknowledged any danger, and have not 
expressed myself to that purport.” 

“ That is so, dear Eilenthal. But others 
were so much the more of the contrary opinion. 
What is your view of this disturbance, my dear 
Brodi ?” 

“ Will your Highness do me the favor to 
make me au fait. The affairs of the day pass 
so remote from me in my retirement, that I 
have barely received a very general and meagre 
account of them.” 

“ Old scoundrel !” said the monarch, in a low 


114 


ANNA HAMMER. 


voice. But he said aloud : “ The disquiet of 
the populace of the capital, some evenings ago, 
can not have escaped you. It passed off. But 
this evening it threatens to become more serious. 
The people, en masse , surround the castle, and 
have taken possession of the public buildings.” 

“ Begging your Highness’s gracious pardon,” 
interrupted an old general, “ not taken posses- 
sion of.” 

The monarch was about to go on, but seemed 
suddenly to have though, of something else, and 
said, in a manner almost familiar, to the officer : 

“ Step forward, dear General ; you as com- 
mandant know 7 the state of affairs most accu- 
rately.” 

The Commandant of the capital came for- 
ward. “ The troops in the capital,” said he, 
“at this moment, number something more than 
five thousand : a little over four thousand in- 
fantry, and a thousand cavalry. Besides these, 
there is the artillery, and a portion of the en- 
gineers. Two thousand of the infantry hold the 
castle, and prevent all entrance. Three thou- 
sand men are consigned to their barracks. The 
arsenal is occupied by the artillery. The ordi- 
nary sentries are posted and doubled. All the 
troops are furnished w T ith sufficient munitions. 
Opposed to them stand the insurgents, some 
tw T elve thousand strong ; almost all of them are 
armed, though great numbers of them only w T ith 
axes, bills, sickles, and such like implements. 
A great part of them are w 7 ell-organized ; they 
are divided into companies and battalions, w r ith 
rifles, muskets, and side-arms ; and as a great 
portion of them have served in the army, they 
are w r ell-disciplined. The organized corps are 
up to this time scattered through the w T hole city, 
wherever there are public buildings, that is. 
They have not taken possession of these ; they 
surround them, especially the arsenal and bar- 
racks. Perhaps a thousand men are posted in 
the castle square. What their object is, there 
has been scarcely time to learn. It seems 
sometimes almost as though they w r ished to 
prevent the excesses of the numerous mob 
oollected in the square. But, on the whole, a 
great portion of the movement appears to pro- 
ceed from a single point, and to be directed by 
a careful and provident hand. This is precisely 
what must arouse our anxiety.” 

“ And what is the question to be considered 
now?” asked Prince Brodi. 

“ At the present moment the question is, 
whether the military shall make a sortie from 
the barracks, clear the streets, and so force their 
way to the castle ; and then here, in conjunc- 
tion with the troops in the castle, and wuth the 
support of the artillery, which has been sum- 
moned, extinguish the emeute by a single deci- 
sive blow. 

“It seems to me,” said Prince Brodi, “that 
the most immediate question is, what is the 
ground and aim of the rising ?” 

Herr von Eilenthal, the First Minister, re- 
plied : “ You may seek for the ground simply 
in those unlucky Three Days of July in Paris; 


j in the corrupting example which they set ; and 
in that desire of imitation which characterizes 
the German people, and perhaps, in a particular 
manner, the masses in the German capitals.” 

“Very true, very true !” interposed the mon- 
arch. 

“And the object?” asked Prince Brodi. 

“ Does the feather-brained populace ever 
know any thing of an object?” said the Min 
ister. 

“ Do not forget, your Excellency,” remarked 
Prince Brodi, “ that w 7 e have just heard, and 
from the most authentic source, of an organiza- 
tion, and of a careful and provident leading of 
the insurrection. Any one who acts w T ith such 
circumspection, has also a definite and conscious 
object.” 

The First Minister w 7 as somewhat confused. 
The monarch looked inquiringly, and with an 
ill-concealed expression of anxiety upon those 
w r ho surrounded him. No one made any an- 
swer to the old courtier. 

“I must repeat my question,” said he, quiet- 
ly : “ Has no one been w 7 ith your Highness, to 
present any definite w 7 ish or petition?” 

“ No one !” 

“ Have there been no propositions, no griev- 
ances laid before the Ministry of State ?” 

“ The people,” replied Herr von Eilenthal are 
alw r ays uneasy, always have grievances. Who 
pays any attention to them ? If they are to be 
considered as symptoms of insurrection and 
revolution, w 7 e must declare insurrection and 
revolution to be a permanent state.” 

“ That is precisely what I fear.” 

“What does your Highness fear?” 

“ That insurrection and revolution will be 
permanent so long as the petitions and grievances 
of the people remain unheard. But this is no 
part of to-day’s business. I must beg pardon, 
then, for returning to my question. The point 
of it is this : Whether there have been no definite 
requests of the people expressed, in connection 
w 7 ith the present disturbances. Have no definite 
and reiterated cries ever been heard among the 
insurgents ?” 

“ They cry out all together,” replied Herr 
von Eilenthal. “ They cry out for the Rights of 
j the People and the Constitution.” 

| The more confused the Minister grew, the 
more pitiless became the persistance of the old 
Prince. 

“ The mass of the people are not wont to 
deal w r ith such abstractions,” said he. “ Thev 
always keep closer to something concrete, that 
for them represents the abstract. The case is 
very singular.” 

One of the generals spoke, though in some 
perturbation : “ They call out some names in 

particular, which seem to be unpopular,” ho 
said. 

The Monarch listened. Prince Brodi seemed 
surprised. 

“ Might I be allowed to ask whom ?” said 
the latter. 

i “My own has been named,” said the First 


115 


A REVOLUTION, OR NOT? 


Minister, turning to the Monarch. “ The most i 
faithful servants of princes have always the 
misfortune, in times of disquiet, to be the first i 
who are persecuted.” 

“ That is one name. The others ?” 

No one made any answer to the cunning old 
courtier. It seemed as though all were fearful 
of the position into which he wished to entrap 
them. They cast their eyes down in confusion, 
without venturing to look at each other. A 
painful silence took place. Two pairs of eyes 
only flashed around : those of Prince Brodi, with 
a glance of assumed and somewhat malicious 
calmness ; and those of the Monarch with anxi- 
ety and at the same time with suspicion. 

The Commandant of the capital seemed to 
possess the most courage. After a pause, he 
said, in a firm voice : “ The populace desire 

the banishment of Madame von Horberg.” 

The features of the Monarch quivered eagerly. 
Prince Brodi turned to him with the most imper- 
turbable calmness, and asked : 

“ What does your Highness think of doing?” 

“ I have asked you for your counsel.” 

“ My counsel is very simple.” 

A breathless silence followed these words. 
The old man was something more than a mere 
courtier. For a long course of years he had 
enjoyed the unreserved confidence of the deceased 
Monarch. Many of those present had been 
accustomed to look upon his sayings as oracles. 
He had, in fact, always manifested a keen, pro- 
found, and forecasting mind. His demeanor was 
now that of conscious but not arrogant superior- 
ity. Even the Monarch awaited his words with 
anxiety. 

“ The people must never be permitted to 
come into the presence of their rulers with 
proscription lists.” 

The Monarch breathed more freely ; so also 
did Herr von Eilenthal. 

“ And your counsel ?” 

“ In truth, your Highness, on the whole, it 
does not yet seem to me to be time to form a 
definite conclusion. The insurrection is con- 
ducted upon a plan. It has therefore, I repeat 
it, a definite object. This should be announced 
before a decision is formed. It has been already 
proclaimed. Let the magistrates of the city 
be sent for — that is my sole advice for the 
moment.” 

“ The city magistrates fled an hour ago,” in- 
terposed the Minister of Police. 

“ That is of importance,” said Prince Brodi. 

“ Why am I now told of this for the first time ?” 
asked the Monarch. 

“ I attached no importance to this,” said the 
Minister, apologetically. 

“ Allow me to inquire what was the occasion 
of this flight.” 

“ The populace wished to compel them to 
present, in an audience, to his Highness, these 
so-called wishes of the people.” 

“ Wishes, then. And the magistrates did not 
choose to present them. Hum, hum.” 

“ They may have been crazy enough for that,” 


said the Minister, somewhat scornfully. “ I do 
not know.” 

“ Let the most respectable, peaceful citizens 
be sent for,” continued Prince Brodi, “and invited 
here into the castle. Let them be informed that 
we wish to confer with them. Two things will 
be gained by this. In the first place, the people 
will at once be quieted for a time — natural 
curiosity soon fetters the masses ; then the 
principal citizens, received here with respect 
and confidence, will on their return admonish 
the populace to be quiet, not without effect. I q 
hope, by this means, that the whole emeute may 
be suppressed.” 

The Monarch looked inquiringly at his First 
Minister. 

“Would not such a step betray weakness?” 
suggested Herr von Eilenthal. 

He was interrupted by the arrival of an officer 
who entered with so quick and noisy a step, that 
all involuntarily looked at him. 

“ I announce,” said the officer to the Monarch, 

“ that intelligence has this moment reached the 
guards below, from every quarter, that the armed 
masses of the people, have almost at the same 
moment abandoned the barracks which they had 
surrounded, and are rushing toward the castle.” 

“At the same time?” inquired the Com- 
mandant. 

“ At about the same time.” 

In fact the beat of the approaching drums 
was now heard from different quarters. 

“ A critical symptom,” said Prince Brodi. 

“ A new proof of circumspect direction, and 
consequently of a definite plan.” 

The Commandant interposed, in a military 
manner. “ I do not look upon the affair as at 
all critical. On the contrary, by this procedure, 
we shall surround the mob. There are two 
thousand men in the castle. I will order the 
regiments from every quarter to march up and 
encircle the castle square. The artillery is 
wholly in our hands. I will have all the ave- 
nues to the square commanded by cannon. And 
thus I can perceive no danger at all.” 

“ How do the people in the neighborhood of 
the castle comport themselves?” asked Brodi, 
of the officer. 

“ They have been perceptibly more quiet for 
a quarter of an hour.” 

The old Prince shook his head. 

“ What is your opinion ?” asked the Monarch, 
who had not failed to observe this motion. 

“ Will your Highness have the gracious kind- 
ness to send for some of the principle citizens — 
the banker Wendland and Horn the furrier, for 
example? The Minister may be able to add 
some other names.” 

The confident words of the Commandant had 
speedily elicited other voices. 

“ Send for the tailors and glovers !” murmur- 
ed one of the generals, half aloud. The First 
Minister said : 

“I am opposed to any such negotiation; I 
am utterly opposed to any negotiation at all, so 
long as the power is in our own hands. Th# 


116 


ANNA HAMMER. 


weak treat., the strong prescribe laws. We 
stand, your Highness, at this moment, at a de- 
cisive point. It amounts to this : Whether you 
will recognize your people, in respect to you 
and your throne, as a power with which you 
can negotiate, or whether you will maintain 
your own sovereign authority. It must now be 
decided whether Prince or People shall occupy 
the throne.” 

The eyes of the Crown Councilors sparkled 
at these words, uttered with great energy. 
They would have cried out Bravo, had age and 
station permitted it. The Monarch was the 
most affected of all. There was no more sign 
of care or anxiety upon his countenance. A 
passionate flush colored his sunken cheeks, here- 
tofore so pale. 

The mob shall never sit upon the throne of 
my fathers !” he exclaimed, with determination. 

A murmur of applause ran through the hall. 
Herr von Eilenthal took the hand of the Mon- 
arch and kissed it. 

“Take your measures,” continued the Sover- 
eign, turning to the Commandant. “ Aw r ay, and 
give your orders. But only, before force is 
used, give them notice to disperse, by three taps 
on the drum.” 

The Commandant took his leave. 

“I will have no unnecessary bloodshed,” con- 
tinued the Prince. “ I love my subjects. We 
must spare the misguided; but must show no 
signs of weakness. Respect for the law must 
be maintained.” 

The Crown Councilors bowed, in token of 
assent. Prince Brodi had withdrawn into a 
window ; he seemed to feel that both he and 
his counsel were superfluous. 

The windows of the royal cabinet looked out 
into the open castle court. They were in the 
second story, and were furnished with thick cur- 
tains. It might be owing to this that in the 
apartment little was heard of the tumult in the 
square below. In fact, however, at least while 
Brodi had been present, there had been but little 
uproar there. For a few’ minutes it had even 
been almost silent below ; only in the distance 
the beating of drums was heard, which seemed 
to come nearer and nearer. In the square it 
grew’ continually more and more quiet. All at 
once arose a shout from thousands and thousands 
of throats, sounding from all over the square, 
and spreading into the adjacent streets. It 
sounded like a shout of joy and jubilation. 
Those in the royal cabinet became attentive. 
At that moment a servant entered, w ? ith the an- 
nunciation : 

“ A deputation of citizens is at the gate of 
the castle, who pray for an audience from your 
Highness. The officer on guard asks for orders 
whether they shall bo admitted or rejected.” 

The eyes of the Monarch glanced inquiringly 
past Herr von Eilenthal to Prince Brodi. 

“ I adhere to my humble opinion. No nego- 
tiation !” said the First Minister. 

Prince Brodi advanced. “I adjure your 
Highness not to refuse the deputation.” 


“We can hear them,’ remarked the old Min- 
ister of Justice. “Listening is not negotia- 
tion.” 

This expedient of the lawyer seemed to be a 
very acceptable one to the Prince. 

“ The deputation is admitted,” ordered he. 
But his eye rested at the same time inquiringly 
upon the First Minister, w’ho bowed in sign that 
he should make no opposition. 

The servant withdrew’. 

In a few minutes the deputation made their 
appearance. At their head was a clergyman 
of venerable aspect. He w T as followed by indi- 
viduals of the middle class ; strong, robust men, 
from among the strong bone and sinew of tho 
people. At their entrance, the attendants of 
the Prince arranged themselves in a respectful 
half-circle about the Monarch, who stood in all 
the pride of conscious supremacy. 

“ You come late to me, gentlemen,” said he, 
“if you come in the name of the citizens.” 

The clergyman replied. 

“We come,” said he, with gravity and dig- 
nity, “ in the name and at the instance of the 
faithful citizens of your Highness’s capital. 
The citizens of the capital have always repre- 
sented the sentiments of the wffiole people. 
Hence we think we do not err when w’e say 
that w T e appear here before the steps of the 
throne also in the name of the whole people.” 

“ And what does the country w’hich you re- 
present desire of me?” asked the Prince, in a 
tone not free from irony.” 

“ Your Highness, among the German people, 
as also in the country which honors your High- 
ness as its sovereign, wishes have for a long 
time been expressed, especially in relation to 
the promises which the princes themselves made 
to the people, after the people, in the war of 
liberation, offered up their fortunes and their 
lives to secure for those princes their thrones. 
These w’ishes grew so much the louder, the less 
intention the people saw of fulfilling these prom- 
ises. In the present times they have risen to 
discontent, to a discontent which, unless soon 
appeased, gives reason to apprehend an insur- 
rection. In the capital w’e stand, if not in the 
midst, yet on the verge of such an insurrection. 
The disoontent is general. It has penetrated to 
the lowest strata of the population. It finds vent 
for itself in various ways. The excited masses 
seize upon those most nearly at hand. They 
proscribe names ; but thereby they attack the 
system. The more considerate portion desire 
simply their rights, the fulfillment of promises. 
They desire that the rights of the people should 
be recognized, and for this purpose that the 
German Act of Confederation be at last made a 
reality for the German people. We approach 
your Highness with the petition, that you be- 
stow, as speedily as may be, a Constitution upon 
your land. If your Highness is graciously 
pleased to make your people happy by the 
promise of this, every other cry will in a mo- 
ment cease; all those threatening masses will 
in a moment disperse ; and this agitation in the 


117 


A REVOLUTION, OR NOT ? 


country will end in a general jubilee and bless- 
ing upon the ruler.” 

The speaker then modestly retired a step. 

" Have you finished ?” asked the Prince, 
haughtily. 

The clergyman bowed his head in silence. 

‘‘ 1 have quietly suffered you to speak your- 
self out,"' replied the Prince, “that I might learn 
what your wishes are. My answer is short. To 
you, a clergyman, it can not be unknown that 
all authority springs from God. From God I 
received my throne as a charge intrusted to me ; 
and to him only am I accountable. 1 have du- 
ties only to him and to my own conscience. 
Among those duties is the suppression of every 
insurrection. It is my duty, at the proper time, 
and when it is conducive to the welfare of my 
subjects, to fulfill the promises in which my 
grandfather, who now rests in God, bore a part. 
With insurgents I can not treat; I can only 
punish them. Tell this to those who sent you.” 

Having uttered these words, he, in like man- 
ner, fell back into the circle of his councilors. 

The clergyman stepped quickly forward again. 

“ It is true,” said he, “ that Providence has 
set thrones and princes in a lofty station ; but 
thrones are nevertheless the work of human 
hands ; and princes are men ; and men are ever 
liable to error. Least of all may any single man, 
undertake to say that he has found out the truth. 
The truth — that which mankind must recognize 
as the truth — the Spirit of God, so far as it can 
penetrate into man, and can stream forth again 
from him, can be found only in that which all in 
common recognize as the truth — all save those 
who of set purpose shut themselves up from it. 
Among the entire German people only one con- 
viction prevails : that what has been promised ; 
should be fulfilled — should have been fulfilled . 
long ago. Hearken, your Highness, to the pe- 
tition of your people !” 

“ I know nothing of any petition,” replied the 
Prince, “that is presented with threats, or is 
borne upon the banners of insurrection. You 
are dismissed !” added he, with a motion of the 
hand. 

“ Your Highness,” said one of the citizens, 
who had up to this time stood modestly and re- 
spectfully behind the clergyman, “ do not suffer 
us to go thus. Put confidence in a plain citizen. 
It will be a great misfortune if you send us away 
with such an answer. Secure to the country 
what is right and just, and for which they have 
waited so long. Earn the gratitude of all of us. 
Spare bloodshed. We can never know what will 
come to pass when once an insurrection has 
broken out.” 

“ You hear, gentlemen,” said the Prince, 
turning to his Councilors. “ They threaten me 
in my own chamber.” Then turning to the de- 
puties, he said briefly and authoritatively : “ You 
have my answer. I will never yield to rebel- 
lion.” 

Once more the clergyman advanced, and bent 
his knee before the Monarch. “I have never 
Ueiore bent my knee save to God in prayer,” 


said he, in a solemn voice. “ If at this moment 
I throw myself at your feet, my gracious Prince, 
it is only to save many men. My Prince, listen 
to the better voice in your breast; do not let 
loose the struggle of brother with brother. Do 
not suffer the blood of citizens to flow.” 

“ What ridiculous folly !” interrupted the 
Prince. “ The people would compel me to give 
up my rights ; the mob would attack me in my 
own palace, and then reproach me with having 
provoked the contest. Send your rebellious 
crowds home to their wives and children, where 
they belong. Do you understand, Master Priest, 
you Servant of Peace ? Away with you !” 

Hitherto he had been cool and composed. But 
be spoke the last words with great warmth. He 
appeared — as often happens in passionate but 
weak natures — to have wrought himself up to 
anger by his own words, without any exterior 
excitement, for he went on with increasing an- 
ger : 

“ I have heretofore been good-natured ; I have 
exercised consideration. The people do not 
deserve this ; punishment befits them. I have 
the power ; they shall feel it.” 

He turned to one of the generals. “ Let the 
Commandant delay no longer. Make haste, and 
carry him my orders. Let him advance with all 
his forces. Let him not spare. I command it.” 

His words poured out rapidly. Anger had 
driven the last drops of blood from his counte- 
nance. He trembled violently. 

His councilors trembled with him. They did 
not anticipate that it was time to tremble for him. 

The clergyman arose from his knees ; the 
deputation withdrew. The Prince walked up 
and down his cabinet, with long and eager 
strides. His council made way for him almost 
fearfully. No one spoke a word. The lips of 
the Prince quivered as though he was talking 
passionately to himself. The Councilors did not 
venture to look at each other, still less to speak 
together. They stood immovable, with pale 
faces and eyes without expression. The anger 
of princes has a magical effect upon their serv- 
ants. The eyes of Prince Brodi only moved ; 
he passed in review one face after another; 
and then looked at the hour, with great indiffer- 
ence ; but he also said nothing. Nothing was 
heard in the room but the steps of the Prince. 
Below, in the castle square, also, the stillness 
was not yet interrupted. 

All at once there seemed to be more move- 
ment before the castle. A noise arose as though 
a great pressure had arisen, and many voices 
were speaking earnestly all together. This 
lasted for some minutes. Through the closely- 
drawn curtains of the windows nothing could be 
distinguished. It was probable that at that mo- 
ment the deputation of the citizens had returned 
from the castle, and there was a crowding 
around them to learn the answer they brought. 
This was the more probable, because directly 
afterward cries and exclamations, from many 
thousand voices, ever waxing louder and louder, 
starting from the castle gate, filled the whole 


118 


ANNA HAMMER. 


broad square. It seemed as though all the pas- 
sions of the people assembled below — hate, 
wrath, rage, vengeance — had finally broke loose 
in that fearful crv. 

The lips of the Monarch quivered still more 
eagerly. A fire gleamed from his eyes that had 
not shone in them before for a long time. He 
moderated his steps that he might listen. 

The outcries below were succeeded by a still- 
ness ; then by the sound of single loud voices, 
sounding like the word of command given by 
officers in front of the ranks of battalions and 
regiments. The regular tramp of large masses 
was then audible ; it approached the walls. 

The Prince grew impatient. His strides be- 
came fiercer. He turned suddenly to the Ad- 
jutant, saying : 

“ Repeat my orders, Wangenheim. Let the 
troops advance forthwith. Let them do their 
duty at once. They must have arrived long ago.” 

The Adjutant hurried out. He had hardly 
left the chamber when the beat of drums in the 
distance, from several directions grew loud. It 
rapidly approached the castle square. The 
sounds were repeated from the square, close by 
the castle walls, accompanied by the word of 
command in loud tones. At the same time the 
tramp of horses was heard approaching. 

A fearful tumult now arose from all parts of 
the square ; the peal of drums, the signals of 
horns, the shrill sound of trumpets, the rattling 
of arms, the stamping and neighing of horses, 
the orders of the officers, the shouts of thousands 
of voices, all caused such a fearful din, that the 
windows of the Prince’s cabinet shook with it. 

The Prince hastened up to the window. He 
flung the curtains asunder, to look out into the 
square. It was an unpleasant spectacle which 
the blank window-panes presented in the great 
square in front of the castle. 

The heavens were hung with a drapery of 
black clouds. The evening was dark, but thou- 
sands of pitch torches flung their red light over 
the square. The light which they cast around 
was ominous. Like terrible giants were seen 
in the light the gables and roofs of the houses 
upon the square, in none of which was visible 
the faintest gleam of light. Fearfully also 
gleamed in the light the throng upon the square. 
The whole space was sown over with men. 
The circuit, till far toward the middle, was oc- 
cupied by regular masses and files of armed 
men : on the side opposite the castle by the 
military, partly cavalry, partly infantry ; and on 
the side toward the castle by denser and more 
numerous bodies of citizens. The centre was 
occupied by that unlucky class, always cowardly, 
yet always running into danger and destruction, 
the slaves of curiosity, who are found in the 
midst of the most trifling concourse and of the 
bloodiest revolution. 

Just as the Prince opened the window-cur- 
tains, the cavalry were advancing in a quick 
trot toward the centre of the square. Their 
brandished sabres shone in the light of the pitch 
torches. The tumult which arose among the 


defenseless masses, who were mostly women and 
children, is indescribable. All endeavored to es- 
escape the sharpness of the ringing sabres and the 
hoofs of the horses ; all fled on all sides, with- 
out order, without reflection, into the thickest 
of the press, into the sharpest of the ringing, 
under the heaviest hoofs. The cries of the mis- 
erable wretches pierced the ear. Nevertheless, 
in spite of all their confusion, in spite of the 
crowding and thrusting, in spite of falling and 
tumbling, in spite of wounds and death, the 
square was in a few minutes occupied only by 
the armed men of the military and the people. 

They stood fronting each other — the files of 
the soldiers on the one side, those of the citi- 
zens, the people, on the other. A narrow space 
of a few steps separated them — the inhabitants 
of one country, one people, fathers, sons, bro- 
thers, friends, neighbors. A bloody civil war 
seemed now about to break out. 

A momentary stillness prevailed — a stillness 
almost like that of death. It was silent also in 
the cabinet of the Prince. The loud, eager 
breathing of the Monarch was heard : the “ fa- 
ther of the country” whose “children” were 
threatening each other with death without. 

“Ha!” exclaimed the Monarch, holding his 
breath. 

“ Fire !” was the order given without, in a 
loud, clear voice. 

“Fire !” responded another word of command. 

The fearful crash of musketry shook the pal- 
ace of the Prince. 

“For God’s sake, your Highness,” cried the 
Minister von Eilenthal, in an anxious voice, has- 
tening up, “ do not expose your valuable life. 
How easily might any treacherous bullet pass 
through these panes — ” 

The poor man seemed so deeply anxious for 
the life of his master that he could not finish the 
sentence. He flung his person between the 
window' and the Prince, w T hom he dragged away 
into the middle of the room. 

A fearful cry from the square followed the 
murderous fire. In one place rose a loud hur- 
rah, in others, shrieks of rage, and fury, and ven- 
geance. Then again was that fearful, deadly 
stillness. Only in the distance might be heard 
the shouts of single voices, probably from those 
who had previously escaped from the square. 

Suddenly with these w r as mingled the heavy 
peals of the alarm-bells from all the steeples of 
the capital piercing through the air. They 
commenced ringing at the same moment, as 
though the time had been agreed upon to a 
second. The impression made was thus far 
deeper. 

The eyes of the Prince lighted up anew at 
the crackling of the salvo of musketry. He 
broke loose from the Minister, without regard- 
ing the anxiety of the latter. 

“ At last !” he exclaimed, and the steps with 
which he paced the apartment became again 
more rapid and impetuous. But at the ringing 
of the alarm-bells, he paused. 

“They are summoning assistance!” he said, 


119 


A REVOLUTION, OR NOT? 


turning pale for a moment. “ My brave soldiers 
will give them a pleasant greeting.” 

Adjutant von Wangenheim returned. He 
announced : “ The salvo has had its effect. 
Whole battalions of the rebels, if their hordes 
may be so called, have abandoned the square. 
In a short time the castle will be free.” 

“Bravely done!” replied the Prince. “Re- 
port to me every five minutes.” 

The Adjutant again withdrew. From the 
square might be distinguished the loud and con- 
fused commands of the officers, the marching of 
companies, the loading of arms. 

Again the Prince paced the chamber. His 
servants stood constrained and silent. It was 
something more than etiquette that enchained 
them. It was the anxious expectation of the 
next miserable moment — miserable for one side 
or for the other ; in one way or the other. 
Prince Brodi himself had yielded to the anxious 
suspense, so general, and so thoroughly humane 
in its character. For an instant he had looked 
upon the First Minister, as the latter pulled the 
Prince away from the window, with a sort of 
sneering smile, and seemed to have some still 
more sneering remark upon the tip of his 
tongue ; but he held his peace, and quietly 
kept his place at the window. 

Another volley pealed without, less violent 
than the previous one. The windows of the 
apartment rattled less violently. Again suc- 
ceeded an outcry, shrieks, and shouts, and then 
again the same awful stillness. 

“The conflict begins to abate,” the First 
Minister ventured to remark, in a low tone. 

“ The insurgents were hastily banded to- 
gether,” replied the Prince. 

The Adjutant re-entered. 

“ All goes well,” he announced. “ The 
square in front of the castle, may, at this mo- 
ment, be considered as cleared. The rebels 
had no other choice than to fall into the hands of 
the troops in the square or of those in the castle. 
They have retreated in the direction of the 
castle garden, where they seem disposed to 
concentrate.” 

“But there,” interposed the Prince, eagerly, 
“ they fall into the cannons’ mouth. Nowhere 
can the batteries have fairer play than there. 
Convey orders to the Commandant to bring up 
the artillery at once — at once.” 

The Adjutant hastened back. 

“ At last ! at last !” said the Prince. “ How 
speedily such an insurrection can be suppressed 
by good troops ; how foolish we were to be 
afraid of it.” 

“Your Highness will bear me witness,” re- 
plied the Minister von Eilenthal, “ that I have 
always expressed myseli in the most decided 
manner against any compliance.” 

“That you have; but certainly my generals — ” 

“ Will your Highness pardon me,” interposed 
humbly the Minister of War. “ None of your 
Highness’s officers have ever doubted the fidel- 
ity and courage of the troops. Of their own 
fidelity and spirit, of course, I say nothing.” 


The noise of the contest had in the meantime 
certainly withdrawn from the castle square 
Only in the distance, and from another direction 
single shots and cries were heard ; but the toll- 
ing of the alarm-bells continued, and sounded 
so much the more fearfully, the stiller it grew 
in the vicinity of the castle. 

The Adjutant re-entered, sooner than was 
expected, and with hasty steps. His counte- 
nance manifested little satisfaction. 

“ What do you bring ?” asked the Prince. 

“ I have to announce that all at once the 
armed peasantry are pressing into the city at 
every gate, and hastening to the scene of contest.” 

“Pooh!” said the Prince “it’s the starving 
mob from the gardens in the suburbs. The alarm- 
bells have been ringing barely half an hour.” 

“ Will your Highness pardon me. The re- 
ports from the gates say otherwise. No attack 
had been apprehended from without. The gates 
had been left weakly guarded, in order to con- 
centrate all the disposable force here ; but a 
stronger force would not have been sufficient to 
have defended the gates. The country people 
of the entire vicinity of the capital seem to 
have risen. The residents of villages at a dis- 
tance of fifteen and twenty miles have been ob- 
served.” 

The Prince grew thoughtful. “ The insurrec- 
tion,” said he “ is certainly more premeditated, 
and more deeply rooted than we had supposed.” 

He looked inquiringly at his Council. No 
one made any reply, perhaps because he had 
put no direct question. 

“ Gentlemen do not answer me. Do you 
perceive any danger?” 

“ For my own part, not at all,” replied Herr 
von Eilenthal. “ However prepared beforehand 
the insurgents may be, they are still unorgan- 
ized masses, without any unity of design or of 
operations.” 

“And,” added one of the generals, “as your 
Highness will graciously consider, opposed to 
regular troops.” 

“And, moreover,” appended the Minister of 
War, “ without any proper or sufficient materiel , 
while the troops have an abundance of arms and 
munitions of every description.” 

The heart of the Prince began to grow lighter. 

“ Right,” said he, eagerly, “they are entirely 
destitute of artillery. But where is ours stop- 
ping ? Plasten back, Wangenheim : the bat- 
teries must advance with all speed. The Com- 
mandant must at once develop all his forces.” 

The Adjutant withdrew. 

Almost at the same moment, another officer 
entered in breathless haste. 

“I am dispatched by the Commandant,” he 
announced to the Prince. 

“ How do affairs stand ?” 

“ Well. The Commandant has determined 
upon, and partly carried into execution, the fol- 
lowing dispositions : The insurgents have con- 
centrated upon the side of the castle toward the 
gardens. They are there shut up. In front 
and on the right, the troops are opposed to 


120 


ANNA HAMMER. 


them. In their rear, they hav£ the garrison of 
the castle, which will attack them in a few mo- 
ments, as soon as the artillery arrives, which we 
expect every minute. This will take the insur- 
gents upon the left flank. But it is to be hoped, 
the General thinks, that they will not risk an 
engagement, which would destroy them to the 
last man.” 

“ And the reinforcements from the country ?” 
asked the Prince. 

“ They are cut off from the main body of the 
rebels. A second detachment of the artillery is 
ordered against them. They will be driven 
asunder without any difficulty.” 

“ Let every thing be carried into execution 
immediately ; and then report further.” 

The officer left the room. 

At that moment the heavy rumbling of 
wheels was heard, from different quarters, ap- 
proaching the castle. 

“ The cannon !” exclaimed the Prince, with 
great eagerness. “ They will rout the mob.” 

Prince Brodi had remained up to this time 
standing almost motionless at the window, with- 
out taking any part in the conversation. He 
now advanced to the monarch, with a dignity 
which was not to have been anticipated from his 
usual cold, sneering demeanor. 

“ Your Highness,” said he, {t will bear me 
witness that I have been a faithful servant to 
your Highness’s grandfather, of blessed mem- 
ory. He called me his friend.” 

“You have been so; and my friend also.” 

“ Then will you grant me a very few 
words?” 

“ Speak.” 

“Your Highness, those men who are at this 
moment to become food for your cannon, are 
fathers, brothers, sons, of families ; they are the 
fathers, sons, and brothers of those who are to 
direct the fiery storm upon them ; and. your 
Highness, they are your children — the children 
of the country intrusted by God to your charge 

“ Well, what then ?” 

“ Have compassion upon them. 

“ What would you have ? Let them lay 
down their arms. Let them go to their homes. 
I do not attack them; they attack me. Would 
you have my soldiers take to flight before them?” 

“ Promise them pardon, and a just hearing of 
their wishes.” 

“To rebels ? Yield to their threats ! Never ! 
I do not understand you, Brodi.” 

“ Allow them in the morning, if every thing 
becomes quiet again, to present their petition to 
you by a deputation.” 

“ Never ! The victory is now mine. The 
rebellion must be extirpated, root and branch. 
Your proposition would renew it. There must 
be an entire change. I have been too complai- 
sant. The people have had quite too many 
privileges. Things must be conducted in a 
different manner altogether. The insurrection 
must be crushed ; discontent must be sup- 
pressed ; the laws must be written in blood !” 

The door of the apartment was flung wide 


open, and an officer rushed in with a visage as 
pale as that of a corpse. 

“What is the matter?” asked the Prince. 

“Most gracious Sovereign, the artillery re- 
fuse to do their duty ; they fraternize with the 
people.” 

“ What !” cried the Prince, stamping so furi- 
ously upon the floor, as to threaten to overturn 
the costly vases which were placed upon their 
stands. “ The artillery ! Direct the troops upon 
them. Slaughter the forsworn traitors.” 

His voice trembled ; his countenance was in- 
flamed. He turned to his generals : 

“ Hasten, gentlemen ; carry my orders into 
execution. Let the traitors be shot down at 
their own guns. Drive them by force into the 
conflict.” 

“ Will your Highness pardon me ?” said the 
officer. “ I am obliged to add that the bat- 
teries stand ready for action. An attack upon 
them, under present circumstances, seems im- 
possible. The artillery demand a cessation of 
the conflict, and the withdrawal of the troops; 
otherwise they threaten to make common cause 
with the people.” 

“What say you, gentlemen?” said the Prince, 
turning again to his officers. 

Two aged generals advanced. 

“The troops will listen to reason,” said one 
of them. “The attempt must be made.” 

“ It is useless,” said the officer who had made 
the report. “ The people have completely sur- 
rounded them ; they will let nobody f>ass. I 
made my way here at peril of my life.” 

“ We must break a passage by force,” cried 
the Prince. 

“ I must agree with the Captain,” replied 
the old General, shaking his head. “ In our 
present circumstances, force is utterly impossi- 
ble.” 

“ What do you advise then, gentlemen ?” 

The color had completely vanished from the 
countenance of the Prince. His visage grew 
paler and paler every moment. 

All about him were silent. No one knew 
what to advise. 

“ Speak !” exclaimed the Prince. 

“ Our dependence was placed upon the artil- 
lery,” said at last one of the generals. “ Without 
this, the troops, in their present position, and 
with their numerical weakness, can effect no- 
thing; against it, they are lost.” 

A second general confirmed this. “ We must 
treat !” added he. 

“ With the people ! the rebels !” 

“ No negotiations !” broke in the Minister 
von Eilenthal once more. “ I adjure vour 
Highness to reflect upon the fearful weakness 
of treating at this moment.” 

“ What do you advise, Brodi?” 

“ A negotiation, at this moment, is too late,” 
said the old courtiei, decidedly. 

Another officer rushed in, with more confu- 
sion, if possible, than the previous one. 

“Another herald of bad news, so soon!” ex- 
claimed the Prince. “What do you brimr?” 


A REVOLUTION, OR NOT? 


Til 


“ The General orders me to report that the 
second regiment has gone over to the rebels.” 

“ That too ! Gentlemen, is it possible ? And 
the officers. What sort of officers have I in my 
army ?” 

“ The officers who left their regiments are in 
the power of the people.” 

‘“What is to be done, gentlemen? Advise 
me,” said the Prince, wiping the sweat-drops 
from his forehead. 

The advisers of the Prince looked at one an- 
other. 

“Force or submission,” said at last one of 
the generals. “There is no third course. Ei- 
ther trust to fortune and dare the uttermost, 
or — ” 

“Or,” interrupted Herr von Eilenthal, “fling 
down the throne at the feet of the people. This 
alternative never ! There is only one thing : 
either conquer in the struggle or fall with 
honor.” 

“ But is victory still possible, gentlemen ?” 
asked the Prince. “ Speak out. Can this hand- 
ful of faithful troops maintain the contest?” 

The old General who had last spoken ad- 
vanced with a firm step. 

“I know of but one means,” said he. “Let 
your Highness put yourself at the head of the 
troops. I shall have the honor to accompany 
you.” 

“ For the sake of Heaven,” broke in the 
Minister von Eilenthal, “your Highness will 
not expose yourself to the bayonet, to murder, 
to assassination !” 

“ The appearance of their Sovereign,” replied 
the General, “ will bring the most abandoned to 
their senses. I do not believe that this people 
are capable of assassination.” 

“ What, then, would you have me do, Eilen- 
thal?” asked the Prince. 

“ Rather fly to some neighboring court. What 
further is to be done may be considered when 
the elements here have become quiet again.” 

“A flight is scarcely practicable,” remarked 
the officer who had last entered; “at least, it 
is in the highest degree perilous. The castle is 
beset round and round. All the city gates are 
in the hands of the people.” 

“ Then give me your advice, gentlemen,” 
said the Prince. 

The door of the cabinet was opened quickly 
but noiselessly. A dark, fixed, and gloomy fig- 
ure entered. 

“ Ha ! Reuter !” exclaimed the Prince, rush- 
ing eagerly up to the new comer. “Welcome 
in the hour of danger. Advise, aid me. I am 
destitute of counsel.” 

Colonel von Reuter advanced toward the 
Prince, with a silent and reverential obeisance. 

“Without counsel, my Prince?” asked he in 
a clear but solemn tone. The counsel of the 
Lord is ever with princes. Only sincerely in- 
terrogate your own nature, and you will receive 
a better answer — the counsel of safety.” 

“ The question is — Resistance or submission.” 

“ And to which does the voice within you ad- 


vise? Follow the human impulse which rules 
there.” 

The Prince breathed more freely. He was 
about to speak, when Herr von Eilenthal stepped 
before him. 

“ I warn your Highness once more, that sub- 
mission at the present moment would ruin you 
forever. It would annihilate the idea of royal 
supremacy. It would bring out into recognized 
existence that phantom, the spectre of popular 
sovereignty. Your Highness will throw down 
your throne, if you yield.” 

“ The people,” calmly resumed Colonel von 
Reuter, “ the people ask, as far as I know, only 
a Constitution. This demand is just; it is 
grounded in the very nature of the people and 
of the State. To yield to a claim of right and 
justice never brings shame.” 

The bosom of the Prince heaved and swelled. 

“Moreover,” continued the Colonel, “tho 
bare promise of a Constitution contains nothing 
binding. It deprives the throne of your High- 
ness of none of its rights. The framing of a 
Constitution is a far more important and pro- 
tracted matter. The earlier the promise is 
given, so much the more general may be the 
terms in which it is conveyed.” 

“ Go on, dear Colonel. What is your ad- 
vice ?” 

“ My advice is simply as follows : Your High- 
ness shall at once, and on the spot, issue a pro- 
clamation promising the country that on the day 
following, a commission shall be appointed, of 
men to whom the people will not refuse their 
confidence, charged with the task of drawing 
up and presenting, with as little delay as pos- 
sible, a Constitution, which shall thereupon be 
made public, in which satisfactory provisions 
shall be made for the rights of the people. Let 
one of the members of your Highness’s Council 
here assembled, announce the contents of this 
proclamation from the balcony of the castle; 
and at the same time let it be printed and cir- 
culated in the city. I know the people. They 
will be satisfied, and rejoice.” 

“ Do you mean that this should be done at 
once ?” 

“ There is not a moment to be lost. The 
truce between the contending parties, concluded 
tacitly, almost involuntarily, may at any moment 
come to an end ; and then it would be too late. 
The people would force their way into the cas- 
tle, and your Highness would be exposed to 
personal humiliation, or compelled to a doubtful 
flight.” 

The decision of the Prince appeared to hav* 
been already formed. 

“Eilenthal !” he suddenly exclaimed. 

Herr von Eilenthal came forward with mod- 
esty. 

“ Will not your Highness have the goodness 
to charge the Minister of Justice with this?” 
he asked, in a tone not without feeling. 

The Prince turned to the Minister of Justice, 
and said : 

“ Do you prepare the proclamation at once.” 


122 


ANNA HAMMER. 


The Minister obeyed the order. In a few i 
minutes the proclamation was prepared. The 
Prince read it over and affixed his signature to 
it rapidly and apparently without any discom- 
posure. 

“Now to the balcony,” said the Colonel to 
the Council who were present. 

Thev went out, Colonel von Reuter with 
them. The Prince remained in his cabinet 
alone. 

The spacious apartment was brilliantly lighted 
up. The thick window-curtains were again 
closely drawn. All seemed quiet without. The 
hostile parties remained standing opposite to 
each other, awaiting a decision which was either 
to plunge fathers, sons, and brothers once more 
into a bloody, murderous conflict, or unite them 
again as fathers, sons, and brothers. 

In the apartment stood the Prince, solitary 
and alone. He had rested his left arm upon 
the marble cover of a table ; the right arm hung 
relaxed and wearily by his side : a deep still- 
ness surrounded him. We call it the stillness 
of death, because it is such as abides in the 
sepulchres of the dead, and because also, it re- 
minds the living of death and the grave. 

Were images of death awakened in the breast 
of the Prince ? If the thought of death fills the 
human mind with images and ideas of peace 
and quiet, then the Prince was not thinking of 
death, for his eyes shot forth dark and gloomy 
glances ; glances which seemed to wish to strike 
and annihilate. Was he thinking of his country, 
of his people ? of the impotence and humiliation 
of the hours that had just past, and of recom- 
pense and vengeance in the future ? — Who can 
say? 

The door of the brilliant apartment was gen- 
tly opened, and a gloomy-looking man approach- 
ed the solitary Prince. The Monarch started 
in such alarm at the sight, that he was forced 
almost to sustain himself by the marble table. 
He motioned the intruder back; but that per- 
sonage advanced tow r ard the terrified Prince, 
with calm and measured steps. 

“ Prince,” said he, in an equally calm and 
measured voice, “ I demand my father of you, 
and the two noble men who are imprisoned with 
him, and a still dearer person besides.” 

The Prince stretched out his hand to a silver 
bell which stood on the table near him. 

“ Do not summon assistance, Prince. I pre- 
sent my demand as a petition. If I chose to 
threaten, to use force, no human help could save 
you from my threats and from my anger.” 

The Prince set down the bell again. 

“ Who admitted you ?” 

“ Do not ask me of that. Grant me my pe- 
tition ; my just demand.” 

“ What do you wish of me ?” 

“My father, my friend, and my wife.” 

The Prince writhed. He made another move- 
ment to take the bell, but a stealthy glance at 
the person who stood before him showed him 
an eye perfectly calm but gravely threatening. 
He drew back his hand. Perhaps he was con- 


i vinced that he had nothing to fear ; or perhaps he 
feared the presence of a third person ; or perhaps 
his own rising courage gave him strength. At 
all events he replied in a tone of decision : 

“ I command you to leave me at once.” 

The dark-looking man remained standing very 
quietly. 

“ Prince,” said he, “ it has cost me a severe 
struggle to make my way here, at this time. 
Pursued by your orders, this was the only mo- 
ment that remained to me. I myself have enter- 
tained many thoughts and many projects, which 
I have been forced to conquer. Love and 
friendship bade me so to do, and my own good 
right. Prince, a single word would cost me a 
severe struggle, should you force me to utter it : 
— but here again, love, friendship, and my own 
good right demand it of me.” 

The cheeks of the Prince grew whiter than 
the white marble by his side ; his eyes had a 
glassy glare, like those of the dead. He might 
have been taken for a corpse, had not the life 
within been betrayed by a fearful trembling 
through his whole body. He seemed to wish to 
speak, but his tongue refused the office. 

But once more he collected himself with an 
almost superhuman effort, but it was his last. 

“ Out with the word !” he exclaimed scorn- 
fully. 

“ My Prince,” said quietly the man before 
him, “ should I at this moment give the people 
proofs respecting the disappearance of the dia- 
monds — ” 

“You will not!” 

The Prince uttered these words with a loud 
shriek. His eyes were sunken deeply into their 
sockets; a bloody foam stood upon his lips; his 
hands grasped convulsively the table by his side; 
but the terrible excitement had bereft him of 
strength. He seemed about to fall to the floor. 
The dark man took him in his arms, and bore 
him to a sofa. The terrible effect of his words 
reacted upon himself. 

“I will not do it,” said he. “I v i I ' not be 
dishonorable ; but do you be human." 

The Prince recovered himself. 

“Reach me the writing materials,” said he, 
in a feeble voice. 

The other handed them to him. 

“Where is my wife?” he asked. 

“ In the same fortress that holds your father.” 

“ I confide in you.” 

The Prince wrote a document and sealed it 
with his own signet-ring. He handed what ho 
had written to the man, who read it over. It 
was an order to the Commandant of the fortress 
to deliver to the bearer, the Count von Arnstein, 
the Princess Amelia, and to set at liberty the 
prisoners, the Count Arnstein, Horberg, and 
Vorhoff. 

Count Edward von Arnstein withdrew with 
the paper. 

The Prince sank back upon tho sofa, and 
covered his face with both hands. 

From without, in the castle square, arose the 
shouts of the people. It seemed as though the> 


THE LIBERATION. 


123 


would never end ; but ever again and again broke 
out anew the cry : 

“ Long live Prince George !” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE LIBERATION. 

The little fat Justice Friedel, Justiciary of the 
Fortress, walked up and down the apartment of 
the Commandant, hemming and coughing. He 
was alone. The Justiciary Friedel was a lively 
man, and was wont to talk to himself pretty 
loudly. This he was now doing. 

“ Ah, ah, a rascally business, but well per- 
formed, it will win me new laurels. Besides, 
my old comrade Eilenthal is now First Minister. 
Yes, yes, one must always keep on good terms 
with people, even when they are nobodies ; one 
don’t know what they’ll get to be. How often 
have I told Frederick one must step politely out 
of the way for a man one don’t know ; one don’t 
know what he is or will be. But the rough lad 
wouldn’t learn his lesson, and so he didn’t get 
the rich girl. But where are my thoughts run- 
ning to? Yes, yes, something can be made to- 
day. We must look sharply about, and circum- 
spectly, and the whole plot will get out into 
daylight. I’ll write protocols in abundance my- 
self. There is no writer of protocols in the way. 
and the soldiers don’t know much about law. 
The cause will take care of itself. And the in- 
fluence, and the trophies ! especially with the 
military. The military treasury won’t haggle ; 
it has the funds, to be sure.” 

The little man rubbed his hands with great 
satisfaction. 

The Commandant entered. 

“ I wish you a most respectful good-morning, 
Herr Lieutenant-colonel. A sorry story this — 
very disagreeable.” 

“ A scandalous, humiliating plot.” replied the 
officer. “ My honor, my head is at stake. But 
they can not deceive me ; an old soldier is awake 
by day and by night.” 

“ The Herr Lieutenant-colonel has the credit 
of it, at least, throughout the country.” 

“ God be thanked. But, Herr Justice, let us 
at once proceed to business. I have had you 
summoned that you may draw up for me the 
account of the whole affair, so that I shall be 
able to report particularly to the Minister of 
War. The former report has been already dis- 
patched. But every body, even the Monarch 
himself, is very eager for minute details. ’ 

“ At your command, Herr Lieutenant-colonel. 
Will you do me the honor to give me the out- 
lines of the previous report, so that I may have 
a secure basis for inquiry.” 

“I will do so. Yesterday was my birth-day, 
which the garrison are in the habit of celebrat- 
ing. At such a time I do not mind a cask of 
wine or so. The people were merry and jolly, 
but I remained, according to my ancient habit, 
only the more sober. Last evening, in particu- 


lar, I felt an unusual uneasiness ; I felt as I used 
to do on a battle day. I myself made the rounds 
all over the fortress, at a late hour, and kept 
watch by a window, while every body was asleep. 
Late in the night I thought I perceived some 
men creeping about by the wall. I looked more 
sharply. I have good eyes, in spite of my age, 
and grew more and more convinced that a whole 
company was gathered close in front of the fort- 
ress. Without making any noise, I went to the 
separate posts, then to the gate, and t hen to the 
barracks. I aroused all, but commanded the 
utmost silence, and stationed myself on the watch 
at the gate. It was not long before a key was 
turned gently around in the keyhole of the gate. 
Aha, just then the bolt was pushed forward from 
within, and the alarm given. The attempt to 
open the gate or to force it was in vain. The 
scoundrels sprang up and made off, and when 
some shots were sent after them from the port- 
holes, betook themselves to a hasty flight. That 
is the whole story of the attempted surprise.” 

“And what was the object of it?” 

“Wait a moment. A capable officer must 
have his eyes every where. When I was taking 
my rounds to make my people on the alert, I 
perceived all at once, creeping about near the 
round tower, the little form of a girl who has 
been for a short time with my housekeeper. The 
wench tried to hide herself from me, but I 
caught her. She would not tell why she was 
creeping about so late at night. I took her to 
Blewstone, and what did we find on her ? Why, 
the keys to the cells in the tower. She was 
asked what she meant to do with them, and how 
she got them. She gave no answer. She stood 
still, and only wept. Not a word escaped her. 
Now do your office, Herr Justice.” 

“ At your service, Herr Lieutenant-colonel. 
We will have the traitors before us at once.” 

He gave orders to an attendant, who was 
waiting without, to bring in the girl. In a few 
minutes Anna Hammer entered, accompanied 
by Sub-officer Long, and followed by Madame 
Blewstone. A silent displeasure sat upon the 
countenance of the sub-officer ; a fierce wrath 
shone in that of the housekeeper. 

Anna Hammer was very pale ; her eyes 
showed traces of tears, but she was no longer 
weeping. Her aspect expressed calmness and 
a fixed determination. She was to-day a wo- 
man, no longer a child. 

The sub-officer entered in silence. The 
housekeeper opened the conversation. “ Here 
is the person,” said she, in a screeching voice, 
“the wicked person, who has brought this shame 
upon me. What a serpent I have been nourish- 
ing in my bosom. This is the gratitude for my 
love. But how could it be otherwise ? How 
could any thing good come from that long vag- 
abond who professed that he could make people 
bullet-proof ?” 

“ Don’t excite yourself, my worthy Mamsell 
Blewstone. Come here, you little villain.” 

“Herr Justiciary,” said the girl, with calm 
dignity, “you have no right to revile me. I 


124 


ANNA HAMMER. 


am told that you are to be my judge. Inter- 
rogate me, and I will answer you ; but do not 
load me with opprobrious epithets.” 

“ Look at her impudence !” burst out the 
housekeeper. 

“ Impertinent !” added the little Justice, in 
an unmoved tone. “But now, my sensitive lit- 
tle dove, answer my questions. What were you 
doing to-night about the tower ? What were 
you going to do with the keys that were found 
upon you ?” 

“ I will tell you every thing openly and di- 
rectly, and then you can do with me what you 
please. I wished to set at liberty the prisoners, 
Count Arnstein, Captain Horberg, and Doctor 
VorhofF.” 

The sub-officer stamped with both feet, and 
bit his lips. The housekeeper shrieked out : 

“ Good Heavens ! what infernal villainy !” 

The Commandant changed color. 

“ How came you to know their names ?” he 
asked ; and then added in a quick and impera- 
tive voice : “ Here are no names. The wench 
wished to set at liberty Number Naught, Num- 
ber One, and Number Two, from their confine- 
ment. Let it stand so.” 

The Justice was visibly surprised when he 
heard the names ; but at the words of the Com- 
mandant he replied, “ At your command, Herr 
Lieutenant-colonel.” Then, turning to the girl, 
he continued, “ Ah, ha ! so you wished to set 
these prisoners at liberty. Now what did you 
wish to do that for ?” 

“ Herr Justice, I have told you what my 
purpose was. I shall give you no further 
answer. Spare yourself any further ques- 
tions.” 

“ Well, well ; don’t be too confident. It will 
soon appear. I’ve made many other obstinate 
persons yielding, by solitary imprisonment, by 
stocks, by fetters, by hunger, and so forth. That 
will all come out in time. Now, my question 
was, in what way did you. expect to set the 
prisoners at liberty ?” 

Anna Hammer looked calmly before her, 
without making any reply. 

“ You had the keys to their cells.” 

The maiden made no answer. 

“ How came you by them ?” 

No answer. 

“ You probably furnished the scoundrels out- 
side with the keys of the fortress?” 

The girl maintained an obstinate silence. 

“ Oh, ho, my puppet. You get along ad- 
mirably with your answers. And so you con- 
certed with people outside to surprise the 
fortress and set the prisoners at liberty. Very 
likely with the peasants in the neighboring dis- 
affected villages. The farmers hereabouts also 
are not. to be trusted. You have plotted with 
all of these, have you ?” 

He received no answer. 

“ And with the prisoners, too, very likely. 
Since we have got them at hand, they will very 
likely prove more communicative than you, my 
tongue-tied little one, especially if we have them I 


stretched a little on the rack. Don’t you think 
so ?” 

The child recoiled. She struggled violently 
with herself; but her determination to keep 
silence gained the victory. 

“ Yes, yes, Herr Lieutenant-colonel, I think 
we shall have to begin with the examination of 
those prisoners, and must lock up, for a couple 
of nights or so, this more than dumb traitress 
in a very nice little hole. Perhaps there is such 
a nice little place ready in one of the towers.” 

The Commandant nodded in token of assent, 
and gave orders to the sub-officer to lead the 
maiden away. 

“ Do with me what you please,” said Anna 
Hammer ; and without faltering she followed 
the officer from the apartment. 

“ The prisoners must fee in the plot,” said 
the Justice to the Commandant, “and it is nec- 
essary that they should be produced.” 

He seemed destined to-day to obtain no re- 
plies. The Commandant, without speaking, and 
in deep thought, took his place by the window. 

“ 1 am of opinion, Herr Lieutenant-colonel, 
that we must hear the prisoners.” 

“ They are put in my sole charge,” replied 
the Commandant. “ I alone will interrogate 
them.” 

He prepared himself to go out. A sub-offi- 
cer of the tower-guard met him at the door. 

“ I report,” said he, “ that a person at the 
gate desires admission. Says he comes from 
the capital.” 

“ His name ?” 

“ Will give it only to the Herr Commandant.” 

“ His business ?” 

“ Will tell it only to the Herr Commandant.” 

“ Singular ! But from the capital. Let the 
man be brought to me.” 

The Justice wrote away at his protocols. 
.The Commandant again took his station, in 
silence, at the window. In a few moments a 
stranger entered, tired and dusty, as if from a 
long journey ; he was conducted by the sub- 
officer, who went away at a sign from the Com- 
mandant. 

“ What do you wish?” asked the Command- 
ant, harshly, of the stranger. “ Who are you ?” 

“ My name is Count Edward von Arnstein. 
This letter will inform you of my business.” 

The Commandant started ; the Justice let his 
pen fall. The Commandant read the paper 
handed to him. His surprise turned to astonish- 
ment, his astonishment to consternation. 

The eyes of the Justice were fastened upon 
those of the Commandant. He grew red and 
pale, as the other turned red and then pale 
again. 

“ The Prince’s own handwriting,” said the 
Commandant. 

“ As you see,” said Count Arnstein. 

“ And his seal also !” 

“ It is so.” 

“ His own handwriting from beginning to 
end.” 

I He read the paper over again, examined it 


THE LIBERATION. 


125 


suspiciously on every side, and cast mistrustful 
glances at the bearer of it. 

“ Have you any other credentials, sir?” he 
asked. 

“ Is not the handwriting and seal of your 
Prince sufficient for you? What credentials 
io you desire beyond these?” 

“ All the fiends, sir!” exclaimed the Com- 
mandant, the drops of sweat standing on his fore- 
head. “ It might cost me my head should this 
paper be forged ?” 

“ It is genuine. Obey the commands of your 
Prince.” 

“ That I should deliver to you the four most 
important prisoners of State whom these walls 
have ever held?” 

“ I should suppose that, you would at once 
proceed to the business. I demand them of 
you.” 

The Commandant stared again upon the paper. 

“ I hold you responsible for any delay,” con- 
tinued Count Arnstein. 

The sweat-drops upon the Commandant’s brow 
were not diminished. He could form no deci- 
sion. 

The Count spoke with strong emphasis — 
“ The commands of your Prince direct the im- 
mediate liberation of the prisoners. I demand 
upon the spot the persons of my father, his friends, 
and my wife.” 

“Your wife! The Princess your wife?” 
cried the Commandant, irreverently crushing in 
his hand the princely order. 

The Justice sprang up. 

“ Without any further delay,” said the Count, 
in an imperative tone, to the Commandant. 

The Justice approached the Commandant, and 
cast a glance at the paper, which was again 
unfolded. 

“ The commands of his Highness are law,” 
said he to the Commandant, but with a deep 
obeisance to the Count. “ The Herr Lieutenant- 
colonel is released from all responsibility,” he 
added. 

The Commandant left the apartment. In a 
moment he returned with a bundle of keys, say- 
ing : 

“Follow me, Herr Count.” 

They went out. 

“Herr Commandant,” said the Count, “I 
have a request to make to you.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ Permit me to decide upon the order in 
which I shall receive the prisoners.” 

“ Decide upon it.” 

“ Let us then go first to the cell of Doctor 
Vorhoff.” 

The Commandant led the way thither in 
silence. He opened the door of the cell with- 
out speaking. The Count entered. 

“ Noble sufferer,” he said, “I bring you free- 
dom.” 

“ Freedom !” shouted the pale prisoner. — 
“ Freedom ! But the others ?” 

“ They share in your lot.” 

“ Is it possible ? What has taken place ?” 


“ You shall learn that by-and-by. Let us hast- 
en on.” 

They proceeded to Horberg’s cell. The 
' Commandant opened it in silence. 

Vorhoff flung himself into Horberg’s arms. 

“ Brother, we are free ! free !” 

“Free, free!” shouted Horberg. 
i He could utter no other word. Both wept. 

“ Still further, my friend,” urged the Count. 

They proceeded to the prison of the Princess, 
i The Commandant conducted them back to his 
own residence, to a side wing, unobservable 
from without, being concealed by outbuildings. 

“Sir, our deliverer, who are you?” asked 
Vorhoff, of the Count. 

“ The son of your third companion in suffer- 
ing. But do not ask further. My heart will 
burst.” 

A flight of winding stairs led them to the up- 
per story, in which the Commandant flung open 
an apartment. 

Count Arnstein was clasped in the arms of 
his wife. 

“Amelia!” 

“ My Edward !’ 

“ Thou art here !” 

“ Here even ;” he had no other word than 
“ Freedom.” Is there to a prisoner a sweeter 
word ? Is there any other for him ? 

“ And now to my father !” cried the young 
man, whose eyes were still wet, and .supporting 
with his strong arm his trembling bride. 

They went back to the tower, to the narrow 
cell of the old Count Arnstein. The Command- 
ant opened this also. 

A tall gray figure stood upright in the cell. 
A beard as white as silver flowed down his 
arched breast. His noble features were crown- 
ed by silvery locks. Over his whole form was 
shed the beauty of physical regularity, of spirit- 
ual calm ; of inner self-content. His large, 

1 clear blue eyes gleamed upon the visitors, not 
with surprise, not with curiosity, not even with 
j resignation or impassive equanimity, but with an 
indescribable expression of the noblest and most 
self-possessed dignity. 

The son fell on his knees before the father 
whom he had so long sought, and had now- 
found. 

“ My father,” he said, “ your son brings to 
you freedom ; he brings to you your daughter, 
your friends.” 

Passionate sobs interrupted his words. The 
father raised him up, and pressed him to his 
breast. 

“My son,” said the old man, in a soft, and 
yet exulting voice, “ thus had I imagined the 
moment of my liberation. Does thy mother yet 
live ?” 

“ She lives.” 

“ The Lord has heard my two chief wishes.” 

His eye fell upon the Princess. He recog- 
nized the features, once so well known. 

“ The Princess Amelia !” exclaimed he. 

“ Your daughter, who asks your blessing.” 

She took the hand of the noble old man, and 


126 


ANNA HAMMER. 


would have kissed it. He drew her to his heart. I 
The two children, husband and wife, rested for 
a long while weeping on the heart of the father. 
The friends were greeted with an affectionate 
pressure of the hand. 

Count Edward von Arnstein was the first who 
tore himself away from the group. 

“ Away from here” he cried ; “ out into the 
free air !” 

They hastened away, after taking a brief leave 
of the Commandant. 

All at once, in the middle of the square that 
separated the round tower from the Command- 
ant’s residence, Horberg stayed his steps. 

“Where is Anna Hammer?” he cried. 

It seemed as though they had all received an 
electric shock. 

The young Count Arnstein rushed into the 
Commandant’s apartment. The others followed 
him. 

“Where is Anna Hammer?” he exclaimed. 

“ In my charge. She remains here. She is 
guilty of treason and rebellion.” 

“ Such a child as that !” 

“ The laws are strict. She attempted to 
liberate the prisoners by force.” 

“ She endeavored to do what was already 
accomplished. The liberation of the prisoners 
had been already ordered by the Prince.” 

“ A court-martial must decide the affair.” 

“ Herr Commandant,” said Horberg, “ the 
child but followed the noblest impulses of the 
heart. Do not you be inhuman. I will not stir 
from this spot without the child.” 

The young Count Arnstein informed his bride 
of Anna’s story. 

“ What a noble self-sacrifice !” said she. 
“Neither will I leave the poor child.” 

The Commandant was embarrassed. Justice 
Friedel came up, bowing and scraping submis- 
sively. 

“ If I am rightly informed,” said he, “ his 
Highness was pleased to put his signature to the 
order for the liberation of the prisoners yesterday 
evening. There were in law no prisoners last 
night. Consequently the attempt of the child 
lacked any and every object ; so that, according 
to the decisions of the safest jurists, no charge can 
lie against the person who attempted this, under 
other circumstances, grave offense. Under the 
present circumstances, my duty obliges me to 
remark, that, as prosecutor, I can find no occa- 
sion to institute further proceedings against this 
child ; and must, moreover, pronounce for her 
liberation.” 

“ A good angel within you says that,” said 
Horberg. 

The Justice w T as the Commandant’s legal oracle. 
He ordered Sub-officer Long to produce the girl 
at once. The officer, brimful of wrath, executed 
the order. 

Anna Hammer flew from the arms of one into 
those of another. But she was happiest in those 
of the Princess. 

Were those tears of joy only which forced 
themselves to her eyes, when in the arms of 


! Horberg? Was not the first pang of first love 
mingled w T ith her joy — a love which shone also 
from the sparkling eyes of the pale soldier? 

They went away from the fortress. 

A carriage w r as standing at the foot of the hill, 
in charge of Geigenfritz. He immediately led 
the young Count aside. 

“ Herr Edward, let us hurry across the front- 
iers as fast as possible. We are safer on the 
other side. The scoundrel can always play out 
his game here. Such a bit of a revolution comes 
on suddenly, and goes off as suddenly; and I 
don’t put my trust in the w T ords of princes. The 
report of the revolution has already reached here : 
how easily may an order come, which should 
reclaim those who have been set at liberty.” 

“ You are right ; we will hasten.” 

“ One word more, Herr Edward. Herr von 
Eilenthal and Madame von Horberg came driving 
by in a miserable carriage just now. The people 
seem therefore to have persisted in demanding 
their banishment.” 

“ Say not a w r ord of that to our companions.” 

They returned to the carriage, mounted, and 
drove rapidly to the nearest frontiers. 

Just across the line, distant a few hundred 
paces from the highway, lay a fine farm-house. 
Geigenfritz, who sat on the box w T ith the driver, 
directed the coachman to drive thither. 

“ You wdll there,” said he to those w T ho were 
sitting in the carriage “ find what is necessary 
for your further journey.” 

From the farm-house came Madame Yorhoff, 
leading her child by the hand, to meet them. 
Schrader was wuth them. 

The meeting of the husband and w’ife was a 
blissful one. Here, for the first time, all of them 
— Count Edward and his bride, the old Count 
Arnstein, Yorhoff and his wife and child, Schrader 
and Horberg — all met together in perfect and 
secure freedom. 

Anna — the brave, the self-sacrificing, the loving 
Anna — stood for a moment alone. Yet she was 
not grieved. She found joy and satisfaction in 
her own self. She left the happy ones to their 
happiness : that she might be alone with her 
own happiness, she went out into the open air of 
the clear cool morning. 

She seated herself upon a bank, and dreamed ; 
and as she dreamed she grew happier and hap- 
pier ; and as she grew happier, her tears began 
to flow. 

The farmer’s wife came out to her : a stout, 
good-looking woman, with a grave and gentle 
countenance. She saw the maiden weeping. 
The eyes of the strong woman had perhaps 
know r n tears only of sorrow. 

“ Are you weeping all alone ?” said she, in a 
sympathizing tone. “ Put your trust in God. He 
will never forsake those who put their trust in 
Him. I too have seen sad days. A few months 
ago I and mine were driven from the house 
where I and my fathers had lived for hundreds 
of years. By God’s help, and the aid of noble 
men, have we acquired a new home here. We 
trusted in God.” 


THE LIBERATION. 


127 


“ Oh,'’ said Anna my heart is burdened, but 
glad. I am weeping for joy. 5 ’ 

A dust-covered carriage drove at full gallop up 
to the farm-house. Behind it, from the highway, 
wounded a wild tumult, which drew nearer and 
nearer. 

The carriage stopped before the house. A 
gentleman and lady hastily dismounted, and 
rushed up to the woman and the maiden. 

“ Save us !” cried the gentleman ; “save us 
from mistreatment — we are pursued.” 

The farmer’s wife turned pale, and appeared 
to tremble a little ; but said, in a calm voice : 

“ Come, Herr Councilor von Eilenthal. My 
new house shall shelter you.” 

The Minister von Eilenthal, with a glance of 
shame, looked into the clear eyes of the woman. 

Mrs. Oberhage! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Follow Mrs. Oberhage,” replied the wo- 
man. 

Anna Hammer sprang forward. Even Anna 
Hammer grew pale — paler than the farmer’s 
wife — and trembled still more violently. 

“Not to the others!” she cried. “Do not 
destroy the happiness of the happy.” 

A wild shouting mob had by this time forced 
its way up to the farm-house. 

“ W hat do you want -with us ? They’ve driven 
you from your own country. We won’t have 
you here. We’ve got enough bad ministers, and 
villainous nobles enough of our own. Off with 
you ! Back again over the frontier ! Long live 
the revolution !” So shouted the furious voices, 
among, over, and through each other. 

The Minister stood in front of the lady, who 
also remained standing. 


The lady seized the hand of Anna. 

“ Save us !” she cried. 

“ You once thought this hand too good to push 
me away with. You repulsed me with your 
foot,” were the words which rose the lips of 
Anna Hammer ; but she magnanimously re- 
pressed them. 

“ Come Madame von Horberg,” said she, 
taking the hand which was extended to her. 

Madame von Horberg looked keenly at the 
maiden ; then stopped, and covered her face. 

Did she recognize the child again, whom she 
once pushed away with her foot ? 

The farmer’s wife and Anna led the fugitive? 
into the house. 

Geigenfritz had for some time been standing 
before the door. He kept back the crowd who 
were pressing on. 

“ Go home, good people, and go to sleep. 
Those whom you are chasing are too mean for 
your pursuit ; and you are not good enough for 
a revolution ...... Pooh!” he added after a 

while, “ what can the Germans, any of them, do 
with a revolution? the good-natured fools!” 


A year after this date a judicial decree ap- 
peared in the public prints, announcing that the 
bonds of marriage of the Captain and Baron von 
Horberg, and Josephine, nee Beaupre, had been 
judicially annulled. 

Six months afterward a notice arrived from 
the United States of America, by which Herman 
Horberg and Anna Hammer announced to their 
relatives and friends, that they had been united 
in marriage. 


















































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